


Conditioned

by CelestePhantasm



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: (But if it has plot is it smut...?), A plethora of negative feelings, Based around two people in bad situations, Basically this is a dark story, Being okay with dying, But there WILL be a happy ending!, Characters tagged are the main ones, Conditioned Responses, Drinking, F/M, Language, Maze Runner AU, Mentions of mental and physical abuse, Other characters involved, Stripper!Gladers, Thoughts about the consequences of suicide, Thoughts of Suicide, Warnings for this story include, smut in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2018-11-28 09:04:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11414643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestePhantasm/pseuds/CelestePhantasm
Summary: A bride-to-be tomorrow morning, (Name) has been taken out and treated to the best the city can offer, and her maid of honor has her final outing well-planned, certain it’s the best thing she can do for her best friend. She’s taking (Name) to a strip club.But (Name) has been sour all day—sour nearly since she met her husband-to-be, and she’s made up her mind to get utterly drunk tonight.Inside, with her bridesmaids distracted, she sets to her goal…only to be distracted, temporarily, by a handsome, blond, long-legged stripper. But the drinking continues, and when he goes for a break, he sees her, sulking, in a corner.He should know better. But he approaches anyway, only to find out that she’s getting married in the morning, and she swears she’s going to her noose. And he knows that look in her eyes—like she’s walking on eggshells, afraid to step wrong, afraid of everything, cornered, terrified, trapped.When she passes out, he confronts her friends and takes her to the hospital, wishing he didn’t know what he knows.It might be pity, but he’s falling for this poor, trapped girl who’s engaged, terrified of her husband-to-be, and very potentially suicidal.His heart is in for it.





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _DISCLAIMER:_** I do **NOT** own _The Maze Runner_ or any of its contents or characters. This is written purely for fun; I make no profit from this.
> 
> Hello! So, just a few things you need to know before you begin, other than the plethora of warnings on the tags.
> 
> This was prompted by a Tumblr user and has been an ongoing fic for...almost two years, at this point, and is up over a hundred-thousand words and I'm still writing on it.
> 
> So far, it has sixteen chapters.
> 
> It was based on the idea of the Gladers being strippers, and...well, it went from there—we talked it out and this is what's come of it.
> 
> This story has turned out to be much, much more than I ever thought it would be, and Tumblr is enjoying it, so I thought I'd share it over here.
> 
> I hope you guys like it!

“So, how's it feel, knowing this is your last night as a free woman?” The words were excited and verging on high pitched, asked with an enormous grin and a giggle.  
  
There wasn't even a breath of pause for the sour, sassy reply, “I haven't been free for a long time.” There was no joking in the tone—if anything, there was a dark, low resignation in the words, despite their acidity.  
  
“Come on, (Name)! You can't be this way!” The woman speaking was animated—flailing her arms a little, shaking her head. “He's a great guy! What problem do you have with him?”  
  
(Name) didn't even look at her friend—she glared at the bright, neon-blue word glowing on the outside of the building they were approaching: WICKED. “I've told you a hundred times. He's a cheating, lying bastard with a penchant for abuse,” she growled softly. And when she heard a noise of protest out of her friend, she stopped dead, looking at her fiercely, her eyes wild, “Not all abuse is physical, but he does that, too...he's just had a bit too much practice to leave marks.” She paused, eyes narrowed and nearly glaring at the other woman. “Sophie, you can say all you want how much you like him. I really don't give a shit. Of course, I don't want you to fall for his stupid charms, either, because then it'd be you and not me, but don't tell me he's a good guy.”  
  
Sophie looked bewildered and paused, and then she rolled her eyes, shaking her head, “Look, just because you don't like him doesn't mean you need to lie about him,” she said, sternly. “That's some awful things to say,” she pressed, looking upset. “I mean, if he really did all that, why wouldn't you have gone to the police?”  
  
(Name) stared at her, eyes wide, and then her face darkened. “I did. Wouldn't listen because 'oh, he's so nice, I've met him!' and 'you don't have any bruises!' and everything else you've said. Thanks,” she bit out, and stormed toward the door of the building, leaving Sophie—and two others—in her wake. “I'm gonna get smashed. If you're going to take me to my noose, I may as well not know it,” she said over her shoulder.  
  
Sophie, startled, remained frozen for a few moments, and then jogged to catch up, scowling. “Maybe you won't hate him if you're drunk,” she muttered beneath her breath, slamming the door open—the two other woman held the door for (Name) and they waited as Sophie, her spunk returned, greeted the bouncer with an energetic wave, and giggled, introducing them as a bridal party, getting them inside with a sigh and a nod.  
  
(Name) didn't get to order the hard liquor she wanted—Sophie started her with a fruity drink and put her in the middle of the bridal party, near the stage. Sophie had arranged everything—had arranged an entire day for (Name), but she'd been dragging the bride-to-be from dawn on. Perfectly manicured nails and toes, dressed to the nines, looking good enough to kill a man with a pretty smile, given a massage and taken for an expensive dinner, (Name)'s final outing was, to Sophie, obvious.  
  
A strip club.  
  
(Name) should've been as giggly—or more—as her maid of honor. But instead, Sophie had dragged her from place to place, the bride-to-be getting more and more miserable and sour as the day wore on. She should've been happy.  
  
But she wasn't.  
  
She couldn't exactly hate her friends for not believing the truth. Her husband-to-be was an actor—well-paid, rich, with a catching smile and dark eyes set to drown any unsuspecting woman looking his way.  
  
But he was a hell of an actor—she was the only one who knew his truth...well, the only one she knew of. She'd believe it if the others were dead.  
  
He was charming and kind to her friends and family—giving them grand gifts and smiling when he saw them, chatting excitedly, laughing and joking. And in public, he couldn't have been better to her—opening doors, scooting her chair in, paying for everything, doting on her excessively, giving her everything any woman could ever have asked for.  
  
But alone...  
  
“(Name)!” Sophie's giggling voice interrupted her as she jabbed the bride-to-be in the ribs with her elbow. “Here we go!”  
  
To (Name), that was her cue; she really did mean to get smashed. She'd drink through the fucking wedding, if she had her way.  
  
The first few were unremarkable in every way—handsome enough, but not truly charismatic on the stage, even if her bridesmaids were already giggling and whispering over them. They were all well-built, true enough, but to (Name), it was just a good excuse for her to drink harder—her friends wouldn't be paying heed.  
  
By the third stripper, (Name) got her way—she switched to harder stuff, though the bartender eyed her warily, pouring the drinks over ice as though he didn't hear her demand that he not.  
  
The fourth was better. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, tan, with a sexy little smile and passionate eyes, he was a lot better eye candy than the last few, and her friends were already drinking enough that he clearly heard the little comments they made and gave them all coy little smiles. To (Name), it looked like he could stare a hole through someone.  
  
But he wasn't her type. If anything, he reminded her a little too much of her abusive ball-and-chain-to-be. The drink wasn't helping, either. She'd conditioned herself to avoid public interaction with anyone of the opposite sex anymore. She couldn't stand it. And it wasn't just because of her betrothed being abusive and such a bold-faced liar—it was because, the first time he did it, he cited her polite smile at a middle-aged gay man for his fierce anger. She'd only given him a polite twitch of the lips and quietly thanked him for holding the door open to the store she'd been leaving.  
  
Her ribs still burned to think of it.  
  
But this dark-haired stranger looked too much like her personal noose for her to find him attractive.  
  
(Name) heard the music change a little—the place was rather full, and the each man so far had been given an introduction and the songs had changed each time, but the songs were so similar...until the last, she hadn't paid heed. This music was lower, still upbeat but slower, with more bass lines and a more primal feeling.  
  
The man was utterly different, too. He was nicely dressed—probably part of the act, but still flattering to his form—in a black button up just barely less than too-tight, and black slacks. She could just barely see his arms bulge beneath the material as he shifted.  
  
His hair was wildly fluffy, and blond.  
  
He could be a model with ease.  
  
He stopped near the entry to the stage, surveying the crowd for a moment, and then he started walking.  
  
He had a little limp, but his looks made up for the little catch in his step. He sauntered up the stage with an obvious confidence and an easy smile, and to (Name), this leggy blond was the best of the bunch so far. He knew what he was doing, and he did it very, very well.  
  
He danced, but not much—she suspected his gentle limp had something to do with it—but he worked the stage in ways none of the others had. He knew what to do, when to do it, and he had command of the whole place with just the sexy sway in his hips and the graceful smile he gave at the tip of the stage.  
  
This one, (Name) followed. She watched every sauntering step, finding the little hiccup in his gait as appealing as the rest of him, and the black button-up had puddled on the stage at some point. He was all limbs; lanky, but his shifting revealed his muscles and she wondered at him. He was the handsomest of the lot, with a friendly smile, and an easy personality.  
  
His eyes were dark. Were they brown?  
  
She caught her breath when his gaze met hers, not long, but long enough.  
  
There was something behind that confidence and gentleness.  
  
But a moment later, he was on the other side of the stage, wooing the other girls, and (Name) turned back to her drink just long enough to miss his brief glance her way.  
  
He worked the stage well, leaving even (Name) thinking that, in another world, she wouldn't mind getting him alone; he even left with a little, sweet smile that left every girl giggling madly.  
  
The next man looked...Asian? The drink was getting to her, and she wouldn't bet on her guess, but he had his hair gelled up and his arms were thick and veined, and he was fiercely cocky...but it worked. The man had the lot of the women in the place squealing and reaching toward him with a few hip gyrations and sexy smiles, and (Name) was grateful for it—she slipped away from her party and ducked in to one of the farther booths, taking her newly-refilled drink with her.  
  
She wasn't celebrating.  
  
A part of her had debated, all through last night, making them have a funeral instead of a wedding.  
  
But fear dominated. Fear whispered about what her mother would do if she did that, and what if her father started acting like her betrothed, in his grief? A dark part of her whispered that her friends and family would deserve it, missing her, for not believing her.  
  
But truth won out; it was no wonder they didn't believe her, the way he acted. Of course they didn't believe her. He never gave even the slightest hint that he did anything unseemly...and in contrast, she seemed like an angry child, upset because of the arrangement.  
  
Even at first, she hadn't really... _loved_ him. He was handsome enough and was kind, but to her, he was almost _too_ nice. Now she knew why.  
  
And in the end...she couldn't cause the people she loved that kind of grief. She'd fought him, of course...but she was ready to break. Maybe when she did, it'd give them all some peace; she wouldn't be killing herself, they'd have someone to blame, and he'd get his comeuppance.  
  
She sighed and sank as far down as she could in to the booth, hoping her friends would leave her there for the rest of the night. They should have fun.  
  
And they didn't notice her absence; if they did, they were a little too sloshed to discern that it was more than a bathroom break. But someone did.  
  
The leggy blond man had a break, and he had put his own clothes back on—the direct opposite of what they had him wear on stage. He wore slightly-too-loose light blue jeans, just tight enough to be held up by his hips, and a white shirt, covered by a light jacket—he knew his best friend was on the stage and not a single girl would notice him going out the front door, since the back one was broken. Someone had busted up the security pad on it—the repair wasn't due for another couple of days.  
  
He wanted to get some fresh air, sit for a bit; his leg was aching worse than usual and the place was fuller than it usually was. He'd been told there was a bridal party coming...could that be the reason?  
  
But on his way out, he saw her. She'd been at the stage when he was on it, and that probably should've been a warning. He should've suspected her of being an overzealous fan.  
  
But something in her eyes...well, he'd been entranced by her, and he'd had years to learn better.  
  
Instinct overrode thought and he found himself going toward her, limp more obvious where he didn't have to act, and he didn't quite get close to her table. She was sipping, hard, on the drink in front of her. She didn't chug it, but she had no water or food to go with it, and didn't put it down for long—just for a sigh and for her body to sink lower in the booth, farther and farther away from the stage, nearer and nearer to the wall. She was doing it intentionally, he suspected, but she was definitely not sober. Not by a long shot.  
  
She was afraid of something. Running. He knew how that felt. He knew a little too well, and it made him speak, before he could control the impulse, “Hello, love.”  
  
She wasn't in the floor anymore; she sat bolt-upright in the booth and looked at him with wild eyes. She looked like a cornered animal. “C-can I help you?”  
  
That was a trained response, even though she'd stuttered it. It was reflex, her mind not quite straight, probably thanks to the drink and the fact that she looked like she was thinking a little too hard. “I didn't mean to startle you,” he said, and her ears perked. Was he...English? The alcohol was definitely taking a firm hold on her. She couldn't quite think right. But he was silent, and standing there, and she waited; fear and instinct shrieked that she should run, right now, she should flee for her life. The drink was setting free all the pain and conditioned responses she had to men, now; she hadn't had this much to drink in a long, long time. And she was so afraid of men, she was so frightened...she couldn't trust this one, either, she thought. But she was in no state to run.  
  
Logic tried to calm her; her friends were a few feet away and there was a guard on the building, and a few posted inside for overzealous fans, but she was a little too drunk to have it slow her down yet.  
  
But his next words made her thoughts stop, “Is it okay if I come closer?”  
  
She nodded.  
  
He smiled. Not the cocky one on stage, but a gentle one, and he approached the table quietly. “You look like you need some water, love.”  
  
She shook her head, and before she could keep the words in, the alcohol freed her tongue, “Rather be on death's door from the liquor than at my noose in the morning,” she blurted, the words slightly slurred. Her face turned sour. “'Course, next time he hurts me, I might put him six feet under and I'll be put away, but...”  
  
The man before her went as stiff as a board, his eyes going wide, and he glanced back to where she'd been sitting. Her friends had scooted inward and were hooting as his friend worked the stage, looking far less drunk and much more happy than the woman before him. A part of him was curious...and a part of him knew he shouldn't get involved.  
  
But her eyes were enormous and she looked scared. She looked so frightened...and she looked so dead inside. There was something in her...  
  
His ankle throbbed, hard enough that his leg twitched.  
  
He knew, by now, that it was just memory. It was just emotion, taking hold, and yet...  
  
He looked at her, lowering his voice quietly, “May I sit with you?”  
  
She nodded, or at least almost did, and he slid in to the other side of the booth carefully. His hand slid beneath the table, rubbing his ankle, pressing a sigh out of his mouth. But he spoke again, softly and quietly, “You won't remember a thing about this in the morning, I think, but...you sound like you need someone to talk to,” he offered.  
  
She stared at him, and she felt her brain struggling with the idea. He was right...she probably wouldn't remember this. She probably wouldn't remember most of this night. And she didn't know him. She recognized him as the leggy little blond that'd caught her attention on the stage, but somehow, he wasn't affecting her that way. She suspected this man had a few too many women trying to get in his pants and, if he was looking for some quick entertainment, any one of those giggling girls at the stage would have stripped him faster than he could agree.  
  
As handsome as he was, now that he wasn't on that stage, he looked...gentle. Soft. Sweet. But he was an actor, too, even if not as good as her death sentence. But if he was looking to hurt her...well, he'd have to get in line, because her husband-to-be and her friends and family were already causing her enough torment—the first for abuse itself, and the latter for not believing her when she told them. Even if she admitted she understood why they didn't believe her...it didn't make it less hurtful, that they wouldn't believe her, as a daughter, as a friend.  
  
She hesitated, and then began to spill it all out—how they'd met in a little coffee shop by accident, when she was running late for work, and she'd nearly tripped over him on the way out. He'd given her a charming smile and she'd had to run...but he lingered in her brain.  
  
Then, that night, she'd met him for real; her parents had insisted she was getting a little too old to be single and she'd been set up on multiple dates, but they'd already said it—this one was the one, no matter what. So she'd met her future husband at dinner that night, he alone and she with her parents, both insisting they were just perfect for each other.  
  
He'd been nice and charming and sweet then. All smiles, polite, old-school charm.  
  
She'd liked him okay.  
  
Then, dates alone, progressively showing his possessiveness, his irrationality when it came to men...and then, the incident where she'd given a half-smile to a gay man for holding the door for her. A man who'd never look at her in that way—he was holding the hand of another man while he held the door for them—and her betrothed had taken her home, and instead of dinner...  
  
Yelling. At first. Then, when she'd gone to leave, he locked her in, dragged her through the house, and...  
  
The man before her grew progressively more pale the more she told him, and the alcohol had truly, fully loosened her tongue by that time. She told him what she'd endured, the yelling, the insults, the abuse, the subtle pinches in public to remind her, the shark-smiles that made her fear for her life.  
  
The previously-full drink was down to a sip or two left, and she downed it when she paused for a breath. “So, yeah, alcohol death? Please. I get to marry my personal noose first thing in the morning. I think I'd rather die on the drive home, thanks,” she said, eyes glassy and voice harsh. “'Course, then, that bunch gotta live with the guilt of not believin' me. I'd bet on him having other little punching bags before. Probably missing persons or a tragic, young death...” She scoffed, tilting in her seat, wobbling unsteadily. “I'll be a face in the 'missing persons' column somewhere down the line. My poor hubby, bereft, will find another little, young thing and do to her what he's doin' to me. I should just go to jail for his murder. Protect future unsuspecting sweethearts.”  
  
He was horrified. Her friends didn't believe her? She was so drunk she couldn't sit up and every word was slurred—he'd strained to understand her and reorder her words properly—and she was still set on saying this guy was that bad? He believed her. He didn't know her, and he believed her, because he saw that look in her eyes—that look like she was scared of stepping wrong, that wild look like a cornered animal, like she was beaten and tortured and bent in to a shape that was not her own. She looked trapped.  
  
He watched her sink down in to the booth, her body falling limp, and he felt her knee slam in to his—the only thing that kept her puddling in the floor beneath the table.  
  
She passed out.  
  
He debated for several long moments. He should probably send her to a hospital—by the look and sound of her, she should probably be in an ER for alcohol poisoning. But a part of him wondered who'd go with her. Her friends looked too sloshed to give her proper care. And her friends didn't believe her.  
  
Something in him growled at that information.  
  
He'd been a stripper long enough to know better, too—long enough to know not to fall for someone in this building.  
  
_Fuck it._ He stood, walking to her friends, tapping the most sober-looking one on the shoulder firmly. He was more than ready to act gay if it took that—he'd very thoroughly made out with his best friend one night when a customer had been a little too pressing (though he'd gotten a sarcastic grin and a sassy remark out of the other man for it)—and he watched the woman struggle to understand that there was someone—a man—trying to get her attention. She slurred at him, “Yeeeeeeessss?”  
  
He was ready to take the poor girl to the ER himself. But he pressed on, deciding he had to try, “You're her friend, right?” He jabbed his thumb at the now-comatose young woman—he'd laid her carefully across the seat of the booth.  
  
The woman's face fell serious and he swore she sobered a little bit, whirling in her chair, stumbling out of it and toward her friend, “(Name)?”  
  
He followed her, watching her reach out toward the little figure, and then she whirled on him, shaking her finger at him, “What'd you do to her?”  
  
“Nothing,” he said easily, not the least bit surprised by her accusation. “She drank herself out.”  
  
The woman's face went between a few emotions, before she turned back to her friend. “She said...but I thought she was...”  
  
“You don't seem to believe her about a lot of things,” he accused.  
  
She whirled back to him, eyes narrowing, and she poked him on the chest, hard, with a perfectly manicured nail, “And what do you know?” There was anger in her voice.  
  
“I know that she unloaded a hell of a story on a complete stranger when she could barely string two words together and passed out from a few too many drinks,” he said, keeping his voice level. “Somebody spits out that kind of story when they're that smashed and I'm apt to think it might be true,” he advised.  
  
She swayed on her feet a little, watching him, turning back to her friend, back to him. “And what did she tell you?” The words were suspicious...and telling.  
  
“Told me he tied her down for hours on end and tortured her with things that only someone with a lot of practice would torture someone with,” he said, warning in his tone. “She told me that the one time he left marks he told you he was taking her on a long, surprise vacation. It was the week after her birthday,” he added, slowly, watching the woman's face change again, debating. “He gave her a new car for her birthday and her favorite Italian wine, but he told you that he didn't feel like he'd done enough,” he continued. “She told me she couldn't walk for a week and he paid a doctor a lot of money to fix her up. Said he fractured her rib and nearly choked her out.”  
  
As her friend looked horrified, he decided to press harder, “And I think she's trying to kill herself with alcohol poisoning—or, if she so happened to die tonight, she'd be rather happy about it,” he said, and this time, there was anger in his tone. “So I thought I'd let you know before I take her to the nearest ER.”  
  
The woman looked pale, despite the alcohol flushing her cheeks, and he watched her attempt to protest, but he interrupted. “If you'd like to help, I wouldn't protest, since I'm a total stranger and give more of a shit about her than her maid of honor,” he added.  
  
She looked somewhere between angry and ashamed, but she walked back to her seat, tugging at the other women—they were ogling another man, dark-skinned and broad-shouldered, brooding and sour-faced, but striking in appearance. They were stubborn, so he headed to the back, spoke to his friend—half-naked, but sober and listening, and when he'd told him what was going down, he nodded and promised he'd cover for him.  
  
He walked back out to see the three girls trying to wake the poor bride-to-be, but he knew she was down for the count. He should've called for an ambulance right when she passed out. He pushed them aside, perhaps a little too roughly, and pulled her gently toward him, her little body limp and unresponsive.  
  
He gathered her in his arms gently, lifting her to cradle her against his chest, and though the three women all followed him to the car, he forced them all to sit in the back. His car was newer—even with his limp, he made good money—and he wasn't letting any of them even consider driving.  
  
He seemed to have utterly forgotten his own handicap, and he might have driven just a little too fast, but they arrived and he collected her the minute the car was off and he could circle it, cradling her against his chest and rushing her inside.  
  
His limp wasn't to be seen.  
  
The nurses took her back right away, and only her now-panicked-yet-barely-sober maid of honor was allowed further...and that was only for information.  
  
Another bridesmaid was on the phone with her parents.  
  
He stared at the doors where she'd disappeared, torn between worry and anger, trying his best to deny the frustrating knowledge that...  
  
That...  
  
He had feelings for a broken, abused bride-to-be who wouldn't remember him when she woke.  
  
_If she wakes up,_ a dark thought whispered.  
  
He smothered it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...a bit of a dramatic start, but this story has, thus far, turned out to be a lot about emotions, so it's a bit of a roller coaster.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed that!


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _DISCLAIMER:_** I do **NOT** own _The Maze Runner_ or any of its contents or characters. This is written purely for fun; I make no profit from this.
> 
> Here we are with chapter two! I'm confess I'm not in too much of a hurry to upload this since I'm still working on the thing, but if you want to see more of it sooner, _please_ review, guys—feedback is important to _every_ writer, as it tells us what you like or don't and it can help us become better.
> 
> This one gets the action rolling a little more, but it's still mostly just a bit of drama.
> 
> Enjoy!

His phone rang thirty minutes after the poor woman had been taken back. He'd stayed in the lobby, even when her mother and father had arrived. But not her fiancé.  
  
“Yo, Newt, are ya comin' back?”  
  
He made sure the other man wouldn't hear his sigh, but sigh he did, “Not sure. How mad are they, Minho?”  
  
“Alby's not happy, and Janson is upset, but I threw them the idea that you saved us some bad publicity, not calling an ambulance here,” the other man offered. “I told them you were taking her and heading home, when you could. How much did I lie?”  
  
Newt paused, “A bit,” he edged. “I'll head home when I feel like I can,” he offered. It wasn't... _that_ far off what Minho had told everyone.  
  
There was a heavy silence on the other end, before, finally, Minho spoke, “What's goin' through your head, Newt?”  
  
“All the wrong things,” he muttered quickly, rubbing a hand over his face. “God knows.” Still, this time, his sigh was audible through the phone. “A lot.”  
  
Well, that wasn't the answer Minho was looking for. “You okay?”  
  
“Fine,” Newt said, quickly. “I'll...explain later.”  
  
Minho paused, “You know better.”  
  
“Yeah, you don't have to tell me that,” Newt agreed, shaking his head, even though Minho wouldn't see it. “Right. See you tomorrow.”  
  
“Yeah.” Minho sounded almost scolding, even though it was an agreeable word, “See you.”  
  
Newt stuffed his phone back in his pocket, and looked up just in time to see a woman approaching him, her face a blotchy red and a tissue in her hand. She was well-dressed, wearing heavy, expensive-looking jewelry and everything about her said _money._ He knew it had to be the poor girl's mother, and he began to understand, suddenly, why this marriage seemed arranged. She was born to money, expected to keep it in the family, probably. “Are you the young man who brought my daughter here?”  
  
Though she wore everything that said she was wealthy, her face bore no makeup and she looked like she had, likely, been asleep when she got the call. She was well put-together, but the splotchy spots from her tears gave her away. Newt hesitated, “I brought a girl here, yeah,” he said, reluctantly. “Passed out from alcohol poisoning, I'm guessing.”  
  
The woman actually grabbed him, pulling him to his feet, and she hugged him. It was the very last thing he expected, and he didn't return the gesture. When she finally let go of him, he hobbled on to his left leg to get his balance, his face pinching inward, “Um, look, I just...did what I thought was right, so it's not a—”  
  
“But it is!” She interrupted him quickly, shaking her head—he could hear her earrings and necklace jingling with the movement. “You probably saved her life!” And then, as he was trying to recover from his surprise, her face darkened, “Her no-good friends didn't even notice, the little bitches,” she growled. “Her fiancé will be so upset with them, and so relieved! Why, I'm sure we could reward you, together, enough to get you out of that... _job,_ you have.”  
  
Newt went from surprise to sour disgust, but he bit it down. “I just did what I thought was right,” he repeated, but he didn't let her interrupt him this time, “and if I understood her correctly, you aren't much better than her friends.”  
  
The woman's hand went to her throat. “ _Excuse me?_ ”  
  
Newt braced himself, trying to fight down his disgust, and his exhaustion. He'd had a hard day, he'd had a hell of a story dumped on him, and maybe it was pity, but he felt like he had a major crush on a girl doomed to marry an abusive husband. This was exactly the cap on his night that he totally _needed._ “The girl just got smashed enough to pass out from alcohol poisoning, and before she did, she told me a hell of a story about her _fiancé_ ,” he began, slowly, trying to keep himself calm. The last thing he needed was WICKED sending a Griever for him. “And in my humble opinion, I think, perhaps, you should take another moment to think of what she's told you about her _fiancé,_ and add to it the thought that she was willing to die tonight instead of marrying him in the morning,” he said, slowly and distinctly.  
  
At first, she didn't know what to say at all, didn't even react, until color flushed through her cheeks and her mouth opened a little more, and he was certain he was about to get yelled at...until a tiny, blonde nurse stepped in to his line of view, speaking before the older woman could even make a sound, “Excuse me, sir, I just...I hope I've got the right gentleman, but you brought in a young woman for alcohol poisoning, right?” When he gave a mute nod, she smiled brightly at him, “Well, she woke up, and she wants to speak to you. I'm not sure how long she'll be awake, but if you'd like...?”  
  
Newt didn't know what to do. He looked between the woman that, he was certain, had nearly ripped him a new one, and the nurse. The girl's mother was giving him an angry, stern look.  
  
He made up his mind, “Please.”  
  
He followed the little blonde nurse, not oblivious to her eyes briefly skimming over him, but he ignored it. That was every day to him, after all.  
  
He knew her mother would be angry. Beyond angry. But he wanted what, he was certain, would be his last glance at this girl.  
  
A man was inside. It was clearly her father, also dressed like he was made of money, and he was scowling at Newt before he even rounded the corner to enter the room. Her maid of honor was also there, makeup a mess, talking quietly, though every word was audible—the room had no soundproofing.  
  
The girl on the bed looked at him when he entered, and she waved her hand at her maid of honor; the woman left without a word, looking sullen and ashamed. Newt hesitated, not having a clue what to do, but she gestured him over, and he took the chair her friend had left. She smiled at him, faintly, “Dad, you mind to step out?”  
  
“I won't,” he said, and his voice was low and rumbling, “leave you with a ruffian. You're engaged.”  
  
Newt hated every reminder he got that she was betrothed.  
  
Evidently, so did she, “You're gonna hear a lot of shit, then, and none of it will be what you want to hear.”  
  
Newt didn't turn from her, but he watched her father out of the corner of his eye. The man fidgeted, visibly shifting from leg to leg, and then he grunted. “I'll be back in fifteen. And he'd better be gone.”  
  
She visibly rolled her eyes at him, “Not for him, I'd be dead at a stripper joint. He can tell you when he leaves.”  
  
The older man grumbled and delayed for a while longer, but finally, he left the room, too, and Newt watched her sink in to the bed, her face falling. She looked exhausted, and worn, and pale. The monitors told him her heart and breathing were steady, but she had a couple of lines connected to the one in her arm, and he suspected she barely remembered him...if at all. Maybe just because her bridesmaids had told her what he'd done.  
  
She spoke suddenly, surprising him, “Not sure if I should thank you for saving me or not,” she murmured, and that told him enough—she remembered. How, he had no idea...but she remembered him.  
  
He hesitated for a moment, watching her breathe; her eyes were closed. “Couldn't leave you there,” he finally said, and his soft, low voice was gentle to her ears. “I was going to bring you, with or without them, but I didn't even know your name...”  
  
She chuckled, prying her eyes open, slowly, and she smiled at him. She had a pretty smile, he thought. “(Name),” she offered, softly.  
  
“Newt,” he returned, and then paused, when she looked confused. “Well, Isaac. Isaac Newton, and yes...my parents had high expectations.”  
  
She had her eyes closed again, and he wondered if he should leave her. She needed rest. But he was glad, because thoughts of that...well, they were, perhaps, as pleasant as her thoughts of her fiancé. “Mm. Well. Newt,” she said, and her eyes drifted open again, slowly, and she looked at him in the silence stretching between them. “Can I ask why you had to be the knight to the damsel? I mean, that name, you should've run the numbers—no promise you saving me does me any good.”  
  
He chuckled at her, but he could see that they must've been feeding her something to make her drowsy. It wasn't the same as she'd been when she was almost black-out drunk, but it was definitely something not sober. Still, he paused, and he debated, too long, on whether he should tell her the truth.  
  
But even half-dead, she seemed to have some intelligence about her, for she slurred at him a little bit, “Ah. Fellow rat, hm?” She hummed at him, turning carefully on to her side, facing him. “Sorry. Only the damaged care for the damaged this way. Shouldn't have dumped my horrors on you.”  
  
He shifted uncomfortably for a moment, but she was watching him now, eyes half-lidded, but she was clearly looking at him. “Well, you needed somebody,” he offered, quietly. “And you'd have been in the floor of that booth if I hadn't been there.”  
  
She sighed quietly. “Might be better off, that way,” she murmured. “Heard Mom. Wants me in my dress next week.” He heard her nail scratch at the sheet she was on, and her eyes had left him. But he didn't know what to say to her, and finally, she spoke. “I'm sorry,” she said, and he heard the catch in her words. “I should be grateful.”  
  
He hesitated again, finding himself wishing that he could stay here, at her side, even as awkward as it was between them. He was a stripper, a stranger, and she was a young woman, come from money, engaged. It was like a bad, horribly-cliché romance novel, doomed to end poorly.  
  
He spoke before he knew the words were going to come out of his mouth, “I know...how that feels,” he said, slowly. “To not want to be grateful.”  
  
Her eyes darted to his before he realized he'd said it all, before his brain caught up to what he'd just implied, and for a moment, he froze. He never told anybody that. He never confirmed it, even when people asked, and he hadn't confirmed it, when she implied a moment ago.  
  
But he'd just said that.  
  
That was a lot to say.  
  
But she just watched him, and then, her hand moved. She reached for him, and at first, she seemed to want to touch him, but she hesitated. Her hand shook.  
  
He reached for her, now, not moving too fast, but pausing before he reached her hand, asking permission, and she closed the distance.  
  
Their hands wove carefully; not intimately, but just enough for him to squeeze her hand, and for her to return the gesture. Then, she pulled back, her hand right back to where it had been, and his fell in his lap.  
  
“I'm sorry,” she whispered, and this time, the words were truly soft, a breath in the little room.  
  
He smiled at her, and somehow, the expression was genuine. “It's okay.”  
  
That was the only thing he could say. It was the thing he always said. And usually, he said it because he had to. But this once...well, this once, it felt true.  
  
But her eyes were blinking closed, and he could see her fighting it, and he shook his head, “I should head out. Let you sleep.”  
  
“Mm,” she moaned, shaking her head, rubbing her eyes. “Wait.” He sat back down—he'd been getting to his feet already—and she blinked at him blearily. “I do...I do want to thank you,” she slurred, but her speech was clearing a little. “Sophie...said...you said something to her. I think...she might believe me, a little, now,” she murmured, blinking at him.  
  
He paled, “I didn't mean to violate your trust, but I just—”  
  
“Mm-mm,” she hummed. “No...I...I mean, I never...told them everything.” She chuckled, slowly, but it was a strange sound. “You're the only one who knows...everything,” she admitted, rubbing her eyes again. “I guess...I guess I thought...they shouldn't have to know...all of it...to believe me, but I...” Her words were punctured with little hums and a yawn or two, now. “I guess...I should've...known.” She rubbed her eyes again, sighing. “But you...I think you made her...believe me, at least a little bit.” She rolled a little bit, not quite to her back, but enough to make her half-lidded eyes able to find him. “So thank you.”  
  
He looked at her now, and he watched her struggle to stay awake, but finally, he reached out. “Is it alright if I touch you?”  
  
A little smile formed on her face, “Thank you for asking,” she slurred, and her head subtly nodded against her pillow, “yes.”  
  
He gently stroked her hair out of her face, and then pulled the blanket up to her shoulders carefully, not nudging the line sticking out of her elbow. “Get some rest, (Name). I'll send them back in.”  
  
He heard her breathing begin to level, heard the beeping slow a fraction, but then, as he turned to walk to the door, her voice came back to him, “Thank you, Newt.”  
  
He turned to reply, but this time, he could tell she was out, properly, and he sighed, giving a little shake of his head, and he left.  
  
She needed her rest.  
  
There was no one directly outside the room—he suspected they weren't allowed to wait in the hall, for safety reasons, and he took a moment to take a very, very deep breath. God knew he didn't want to see her family or friends on the way out—he truly was just a stranger, but somehow...somehow, it didn't feel like that. Somehow, he felt like he knew her better than her friends, even if she'd told him everything in a drunken blur.  
  
He still wouldn't bet on her remembering him in the end—he'd be a faint blur on her memory on a night that, hopefully, would scare her loved ones in to thinking twice about her husband-to-be. After all, if she dreaded him badly enough to drink this hard...well, that had to be a pretty good indication of how much she meant what she'd been saying, didn't it? But somehow, in his head, he knew that her parents, at least, would try to deny the truth—try to deny her horrible experiences. Something in him thought they'd probably, in the end, even deny that it was a near suicide-attempt—as close as one could come, without actually trying the deed in full.  
  
Newt wasn't certain she'd tried to kill herself. But he was very, very certain that she would have been okay with dying, if it so happened this night, and that was almost as bad.  
  
What kind of people would deny that? What kind of people would ignore her, drive her to this point?  
  
His one comfort was that there was a chance that her maid of honor—Sophie, he thought she said—was beginning to believe her.  
  
Was that enough...?  
  
He swallowed down his thoughts, knowing he couldn't linger on them. He was very sure this was the last time he'd ever see her. She would have no reason to head back to WICKED. She'd have no reason to come back to see him.  
  
And they were in two very, very different social circles. He was a stripper, picking his money up in paychecks and off the stage floor—when it was slow, at least. Otherwise, there were handlers that collected the money the women flung at them.  
  
And she was born to money, raised in it. He could tell by the look of her parents, by the look of her, when he thought about it. That pretty face, the perfectly manicured hands, the well-made clothes she'd been wearing.  
  
They wouldn't accidentally cross paths again. He'd bet on her family making sure she was never in this part of the city again.  
  
He ran his hand through his messy hair, further ruffling it, and knew he had to face her family and go back to the life he lived.  
  
_I wouldn't have a chance with her, even if she wasn't engaged,_ he told himself firmly, and with a last, lingering glance at the room, he finally talked himself in to leaving.  
  
Her family and friends were all clustered in one place, and he took one more breath before he approached them, swallowing his dread for the encounter. But the worst part was that they all turned toward him, and while her bridesmaids looked almost pleased at his appearance, her parents scowled at him with all the venom they had, and he would bet on them having a lot of practice at the expression. “She's asleep.”  
  
He could feel their judgment long before her mother opened her mouth, and he knew what she was going to say. “How dare you accuse us of...of...”  
  
He felt his shoulders bunching up with tension. He wanted nothing to do with this, but the very idea of it, that she was just there because her loved ones didn't believe her...it pissed him off, endlessly, and he immediately shook his head, though he was trying to push down his fluster. He was the _rational_ one among his friends. He was the calm one. But this entire situation set him on edge—he felt like a man walking on blades, just barely hovering over shards of broken glass. “Of not giving a shit about your daughter?” ...Well, there went the rational side of him. That had just escaped, and it escaped fast. “Any half-decent human being would actually listen to her, take in to account that maybe, just maybe, even if she was a chronic liar, she really was in that situation.” His eyes narrowed. “Did you just not care that maybe she was being abused, or is it that you simply don't care if she's unhappy?” The set of his shoulders was rigid, his muscles pulled so tight his neck hurt. “Whatever the case, I think it's shameful that a complete stranger had to bring her to an ER because she would have been happier to give you a funeral in the morning than a wedding,” he spat.  
  
Both her parents were struck speechless, and her bridesmaids had looked long ashamed before now—he suspected Sophie had already said her piece to them about what he'd told her. “And I have absolutely no need of any money you or her fiancé would have thought to _reward_ me with.” He paused, taking a deep breath, calming himself down. “And as unlikely as you are to heed me, I would very much suggest that you ask her exactly what he did to her, because I can tell you, if you heard even a moment of the truth, you would sever all contact with her fiancé, and I think you would happily press charges.” He paused, and the sassy, hateful part of him made another quick jab, “Might make enough to buy her the therapy she'll need the next several years.”  
  
When her mother's mouth fell open again, and he saw her father's face flushing with color, pinching inward with rage, he smiled at them, both sassy and sincere. “Have a good night. I hope yours is better than hers.”  
  
And he left.  
  
He was well aware that he could get in trouble. He was well aware that he could, when he returned, get fired...or worse.  
  
He didn't shiver until he was in his car, breathing hard.  
  
What about this woman drove him to this? What about her destroyed all his sanity this way? He was sure that, for a moment, he knew what WICKED's Cranks felt like—mindless but for rage, and want of one thing.  
  
His hands were shaking on the wheel, and he hadn't started the car yet. Was this pity? Was it sympathy? Empathy? He wondered if they could all be one, just for now. Just to make his life easier, to explain away this powerful feeling.  
  
Had he seen himself, in her? Had he seen her helpless hopelessness, and wished to mend it, the way his had never been? His leg was hurting so badly he wondered if he should call Minho. Minho would pick him up. The pain fired through his ankle, all the way up his knee and to his hip, like a lightning strike, isolated in his own leg.  
  
Something had taken hold of him when he'd seen her eyes on that stage. Already glassy—she'd clearly had a few drinks already, but when he'd met her eyes on that stage, he'd caught his breath. He saw an emptiness he knew too well and he'd had to walk away from her, he'd had to break her gaze or he might have hit the stage floor and not gotten up.  
  
And then, finding her in that booth, finding her sipping so hard on that drink, so resentful, so lamenting, so upset...  
  
He wondered at her strength. If he had been in her shoes, if he had walked even one day with her...  
  
The moment he'd heard what he did, telling her loved ones he was taking her on a vacation, just to cover up how much he'd done to her...  
  
Newt was certain he would have quit. The moment he recovered, he would've done what she did—go to the police, tell her friends and family, tell them the truth about that wicked, terrible man.  
  
And then, for them not to believe her...  
  
How she had not broken, how she had held herself together, he had no idea. How she got out of bed with the thought that she was betrothed to a monster...was she so strong, or was it simply that she had already become a shell?  
  
No. A shell didn't have the will to drink itself out.  
  
She was still fighting.  
  
Maybe that was what he had fallen for. Maybe that was what had enraged him—driven him to saying those things, to sitting in his car, trembling with the fury and adrenaline and emotions coursing through him so hard that he thought he would burst. His leg was another story.  
  
His leg was a long story.  
  
He nearly shrieked when, suddenly, there was a tap on the glass of his window, and his wild eyes found Sophie there, her breath frosting on the air, and she was shivering. He pulled on the door handle, and she stepped back to let him get out, leaning all his weight on his left leg, trying to talk himself down. _It's just a memory. Just a memory. Just a memory._  
  
He'd repeated that for years now. “What?”  
  
The word came out a little harsher than he intended, and he took a breath, “Sorry. Just...just, flustered,” he mumbled.  
  
“I don't blame you,” she said, quickly, softly. “Her parents...” The woman before him shook her head, then, and she fidgeted for a moment, before she finally spoke. “I...um. I...could you...take me to my car? And...and maybe, I could...talk to you?”  
  
He paused, and his eyes darted toward the ER doors. No one there. Just Sophie, standing in front of him, shivering lightly. He took a little breath, “Yeah. Yeah, hop in.”  
  
She thanked him, circling his car quickly, and she ducked inside. It wasn't any warmer inside, but he started it, this time, and he felt her eyes on him. “You...okay?”  
  
He stiffened a little, but he took a breath, carefully tucking his right leg under his seat—he didn't have the strength to drive with it. He was still repeating his little mantra a bit, once in a while, but his leg felt broken again. His mind was playing tricks, he knew it, but he couldn't get his body to obey the logic he was throwing at it. “Fine,” he said, tight-lipped, but he was trying not to be vicious. “Just...flustered,” he repeated.  
  
She nodded, reluctantly. “It's just...I...saw you, um, saw you shaking. You okay to drive?”  
  
It took him a moment to catch up to her thought process, and he turned to her, meeting her eyes, “I'm clean. I swear,” he said, quickly. “I'm not on anything.” When he saw the tension fall out of her shoulders, he sighed. “It's just...I don't usually...get worked up,” he admitted, reluctantly. “I don't know what it was, but that just...”  
  
“Pissed you off?” she supplied, and she gave him a timid smile. “Kinda glad it did,” she admitted, and she nodded. “Might wanna get going. I told them I was going to catch a cab if you were gone.”  
  
He caught the subtle hint, and he threw the car in gear, pulling away carefully. He'd learned well how to drive with his left leg, though all the doctors said he should work his right—to keep it strong. Sometimes, though, he just...couldn't. Still, once they were on the road, he took a deep breath. “You believe her?”  
  
“I do now,” she said, and he heard the shame in her voice. “I kinda hate myself a little, for how I treated her, and what I said to her tonight...”  
  
He paused, glancing at her when she trailed off. She looked sorry. She looked upset. But before he could speak, she spoke in a quivering, cracked whisper, “Did she really try to kill herself tonight?”  
  
As his foot feathered on the brake in traffic, he thought about that, and after a long, long moment, he spoke. “No,” he said, after a lot of thought. “Not...specifically. But I think...if she had died, she would have been perfectly content with that outcome.” He said the words carefully, and slowly, running a hand through his hair as they stopped at a light. “I don't think she actually meant to poison herself. I get the feeling she was going for very, very drunk, but, perhaps...” he paused, and as his foot carefully nudged the gas, he swallowed the lump that had suddenly, painfully formed in his throat. “I don't know her well enough to know the truth. But there are easier, cleaner ways to kill yourself than alcohol poisoning in a public place,” he said, at last.  
  
Sophie was utterly silent for a long time, as he drove back toward WICKED, and he used the silence to talk himself down again. He had no mantra for this, no mantra for falling for an almost-suicidal, half-broken girl he'd just met and didn't know. He only knew her name. And yet...yet, the thought that, perhaps, her family wouldn't see the truth—that they wouldn't accept that she was borderline suicidal—and wouldn't take care of her...  
  
He feared that this was the last he would see of her, not simply because her family would hate him for his words.  
  
Sophie startled him away from his darkness, “What made you talk to her like that? You were on stage,” she said, softly. “I might've already been on the drink, but you're one of the strippers. What made you talk to her?”  
  
He paused, and, as another light stopped them, he took a deep breath. He didn't want to tell her. But the girl had taken his words to heart and was beginning to believe her friend. Was scared for her, was thinking more about what she'd said, and Newt knew he had to tell the truth. He felt his breath shudder when he let it out. “I saw her, on the stage,” he said, slowly, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the now-warm heater. “Saw her eyes.” He felt Sophie staring at him, hard, but he could not even pretend to glance at her. He focused, almost too much, on the road before him, the traffic, on driving. “She looked as empty and broken as I was, years ago.” The words were nearly too soft, now, for Sophie to hear, but she strained to listen to him.  
  
His words made her heart jump right in to her throat.  
  
“She looked like she was ready for her pine box.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed that, guys!
> 
> Thanks for reading along.
> 
> Remember that if you liked it, it helps a great deal to tell me what you liked—and seriously, even unintelligible keyboard-bashing is even very gratifying. *Nods.*


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _DISCLAIMER:_** I do **NOT** own _The Maze Runner_ or any of its contents or characters. This is written purely for fun; I make no profit from this.
> 
> I can't believe I actually got any feedback on this...but I did! I'm glad it's not going totally ignored, and the comment actually reminded me to stop in and update the thing, so thank you!
> 
> Anyway, off you go! Enjoy!

The rest of the drive was silent, and Newt fought the ache rising high in his ankle. He knew it was only a memory, that it was all in his head, but he could feel the ache as though it was new. At least it had diminished a bit, focusing on driving, talking to Sophie. But he knew he would need a good sleep to deny the pain arcing through his leg.  
  
When they stopped, the parking lot was empty but for her car. Minho and the others were surely home by now. He wondered if he should even bother to text his friend to let him know when he got home—the other man would pester him about tonight's events the moment the opportunity rose.  
  
She surprised him from his thoughts once more, “Thank you,” she said, and he heard the wealth of emotion welling up in her voice. “I mean...not just for this. I bet this is out of your way,” she added, and he turned to see her fidgeting in the seat, not nearly as fierce as before. “But...for her. I mean, I gotta admit, I really hope you're wrong, but...”  
  
He could see her thinking, very hard, could see her struggling with the idea that, perhaps, she had been part of what had pushed her friend this far. He knew he'd started her mind churning, and the fact that she had so easily allowed (Name) to brush her aside in the hospital room...he knew she felt guilty. He hesitated for a moment, and then he decided he should say something, though he took the time to choose his words carefully. He knew better than to further worry her, at this rate, and he wasn't going to give away to her what he had to (Name).  
  
He still couldn't quite grasp that he'd slipped up so easily to the young woman.  
  
“You know...she must be strong,” he said, measuring his words. “For so many to deny her. She must not have changed, even when he...” He couldn't form the words, his mind bringing up the images she had so recently told him. The last thing he needed on his mind was more darkness. “Usually, people who are abused change. Usually, they don't tell anyone. They're ashamed,” he added, knowing she was watching him now, and this time, he was pulling her from her own dark thoughts. “She doesn't seem the sort.”  
  
The laugh Sophie let out was broken, like she stifled a sob with the sound. “She did change. A little,” she admitted. “Usually, she's a little firecracker. Doesn't let people order her around. She's done what she wants all her life...not even because she's spoiled, either,” she said suddenly. “Some of it, I guess, because she had the money for it, but she's always been the girl you don't mess with.” Newt could see a faint smile on her face. “And men...men always fall at her feet. Not that she takes many of them up on the offer, of course,” she quickly amended. “She went to college right after high school. Spent the summer in Italy...apparently she had a good few Italians asking her to marry them, too,” she laughed. “But she came back and focused on school. Said she wanted to know what to do with her parent's money. Said she'd inherit, as the only child, and I swear she told me more times than I can count that whatever man they tried to marry her off to wouldn't get a penny of it,” she said. But she was staring at her lap now, and he could see her lip tremble. “She always told me she wouldn't fall in love with some guy they set her up with, and they've been doing it since she was sixteen,” she murmured. “Girl never gave them a chance. She brought me on a double-date with a particularly awful one. We saw a movie...guy tried to kiss her goodnight. I think he had a bruise for two days.” There was an almost-smile on her face, even though she was staring at her knees. “But then...then, you know, you said...about him lying, about taking her on vacation?” There was a pause in her words, and the cold seeping in to the car was wrapping around his bare hands. He saw hers clench in her lap.  
  
“When she came back...I mean, when he let her out,” she corrected herself, hands clenching again. “She didn't speak to us for a few days, even when we asked how she was. I tried to visit her. Her parents said she was locked in her wing of the manor, wouldn't come out.” He saw the tears spill down her cheeks, now, “Maybe...maybe that's when she went to the police. She told me she did, that they didn't believe her,” she said, sniffling. “Her parents said she only came out of her wing at night. Wouldn't let their maids in to clean or anything,” she mumbled. “But then...but then, when she came back, she came back like she always has. Fighting and not letting even her parents tell her what to do,” she added.  
  
He sat there, thinking that over, but he didn't speak for a moment. She filled the gap, “Has she been acting? Has she been pretending?” But then, she scoffed, “No. She tried to tell us the truth.”  
  
Newt looked at her, wondering if he should really leave her to get her car. She was so wrapped up in her friend, he wasn't certain she would be able to drive safely. “You shouldn't focus on what happened,” he said, slowly. “Focus on now. Try to help her.”  
  
She looked at him, her eyes wet with tears, and she nodded meekly. “Y-yeah.” Of course, Newt knew it wouldn't change her mind right off. If anything, she'd spend the next several days beating herself up, probably spending too much time with (Name). “U-um. Thanks, again,” she said, her voice quiet, and her hand shook when she reached for the door handle, pulling it.  
  
“You're welcome,” he offered, this time, and she gave him a broken-looking smile, cutting off the cold air as she shut the door. He waited until she was in her own car, and had started it, before he allowed himself to turn his own car back on. His hands were still shaking, but he hadn't let her see that. No one deserved this. But this girl...she sounded so self-assured, so intelligent, so feisty. She sounded like the kind of girl he'd have fallen for before WICKED. She sounded strong. But he had seen her vulnerability.  
  
He wondered if she'd always had it, or if, as Sophie had said, she had always been confident. Had always been fighting and fierce.  
  
What kind of man could break someone like her? She sounded like the kind of woman who would've punched him from the start if he tried to lay his hands on her.  
  
Newt shivered.  
  
Had she fallen for him, in some capacity? Been vulnerable that way?  
  
He shook his head, hard, as though he could cast his wayward thoughts out through his ears.  
  
He threw the car in gear, knowing he had to get some sleep. It was late, and he'd been thinking too much. He nudged the gas with his left foot, desperately trying to ignore the ache in his ankle, and he turned the radio too loud on his way home.  
  
He hobbled to his apartment using the railing too heavily, but inside, he was too tired to care.  
  
Sleep wrapped around him the moment he fell in his bed, and he greeted it happily.  
  
Even his dreams were of her.  
  
He awoke later than usual, but not late for work—dawn had been peeking through his curtains by the time he'd gotten in bed. His leg was significantly better, despite his persistent thoughts about the girl he'd never see again, and he spent too long in the shower, letting the hottest water he could stand beat down his back, trying to wash away his swirling thoughts.  
  
It didn't work, of course.  
  
Instead, by the time he was headed for work again, he was tempted to stop at the hospital, see if she was still there. But that would be even worse for him, and he showed up a good thirty minutes early.  
  
He wasn't the only one.  
  
Minho was waiting for him.  
  
“Long night?”  
  
Minho's words were cuttingly abrupt and sour. Newt collapsed on a little bench in the room, rubbing his face. “You've no clue,” he responded.  
  
Minho's silence was a warning, but Newt still flinched when the other man struck him in the arm, not too hard, but enough to leave a sting for a few seconds. “The hell were you thinking, Newt? What happened last night?”  
  
Newt told him everything. Everything. He told Minho about seeing her eyes, about nearly collapsing at his first sight of her, he told him he'd known that look, that he'd seen her drinking far too hard. He told Minho about her dumping her situation right out at him, that she'd told him enough to make even Newt sick, and he told the other man about her passing out, about her friends not giving a shit, about taking her to the hospital. He explained everything from her irritating mother to her overprotective father, from her guilty friends to her quiet intelligence about his own experiences. He told Minho about his ankle, about his anger, and about her friend seeking comfort in him, and then that, even in sleep, he hadn't escaped her.  
  
By the end, he felt more exhausted than when he had gone to bed the night before, but at least his ankle didn't hurt today.  
  
And Minho just sat there, looking at him in surprise and awe, and then, finally, he spoke. “You _did_ have a long night,” he muttered.  
  
Newt didn't miss the fact that all his friend's typical sass was gone, but he was too tired to point it out. He just wished he could wipe it from his memory, that he could forget her, but even now, even with his brain struggling to let go of her, the rest of it gripped on to her. Perhaps worst of all was that, now that he was awake, he was certain that he'd fallen in love with her. He never just fell for a girl.  
  
He'd learned that fast, here. Plenty of pretty faces...but never, ever fall for one.  
  
And after a while, he didn't even think about it. He wasn't sure he even wanted a relationship, the way his life was tied to WICKED.  
  
But he was sure he'd fallen for (Name). He didn't believe in love at first sight. But he'd taken one look at her and he hadn't been able to get her out of his head.  
  
And now his heart wasn't willing to let go of her.  
  
Perhaps that was the worst of all.  
  
“Newt?”  
  
The voice wasn't male. It didn't belong to his friends or coworkers or any of the Grievers. It was _her.  
  
_ He wished that he hadn't stood and turned to her in a blink, surprise on his face, his eyes wide.  
  
He wished that he couldn't feel the relief flooding through him like a drug, numbing him for just a moment, before other feelings surged forward. He'd been worried, still thinking of her, but now, now...now it was relief, and a joy he didn't know he could feel, to see her there, saying _his_ name. He stumbled toward her, just a few steps, eyes wide, “(Name)?” His voice held all the definite surprise that he felt, but there was something wistful in the breath that uttered that one word. “Are you alright?” The words rushed forward before he could control them, and he wondered again at this woman, who so easily eradicated all the control he'd built in to himself in the passing years. He might've had some anger issues at times, but even that had ebbed as he grew older, as he'd matured. If anything was quick to come from him, it was usually anger. Usually, he could keep his head on straight.  
  
But she tore from him every semblance of sanity he'd ever held. It felt like she ripped his heart out of his chest and used it as a joystick for his brain. “You should be resting,” he found himself saying, without any control over his mouth.  
  
She smiled at him, and he swore his heart tripled in speed. “I'm going to,” she said, softly. “Sophie brought me,” she murmured, and he noticed, now, that her eyes were just a little glassy. “I asked her to, so if you were here, I could thank you.”  
  
It was strange, the pain that ripped through him, hearing that from her. He didn't know why it hurt. He knew better—she wasn't coming here to run in to his arms and kiss him. She wasn't here to offer her love.  
  
He knew she wouldn't fall for him. She was scared. Scared of men.  
  
_But she's here,_ a thought whispered. _And there are tons of men here. Just men, now. She's here for me.  
  
_ Some of the pain eased.  
  
But she took a step, and she wobbled, and he ran forward, and even though he saw her flinch, he caught her carefully, gently, righting her before he let her go. “You're not drinking again, are you?”  
  
She laughed, now, and the sound was like a punch to the gut. She had such a pretty voice, a pretty smile. She was beautiful. “I think I've had my fill of it for a long time,” she said, and there was a warmth in her voice. She sounded so different than she had the night before, when she was drunk. She sounded like she had in the hospital; gentle, understanding. “I actually almost vomited when they tried to feed me some sort of liquid medicine to sleep,” she muttered. “But the hospital gave me some mild painkillers for today and tomorrow. Mom shoved one down my throat, but...Sophie snuck me out. I begged her,” she murmured.  
  
Newt wanted to reach for her. He knew he did, he wanted to hold her, he wanted to have her in his arms, but he knew better. He'd be no better than her fiancé. “But you should be resting,” he repeated, though this time, it was a little less sure.  
  
She smiled at him, and his heart jumped again, running so fast he feared it would go through his ribcage and leap in to her arms. “Can't sleep in that house. Mom's still on about Stephen,” she mumbled. “I think she'd have propped me up at the altar if she thought she could get away with it,” she muttered, and he heard the bitterness in her voice. But then, she was shaking her head, and she sighed. “I'm not here for that,” she declared, and she took a breath. “I came here to thank you,” she said, and Newt felt his heart jump again. He was certain it would never find a steady rhythm after today, after hearing the warmth of her voice, the sincerity in her words when she spoke to him.  
  
“You don't need to thank me,” he said, but the words were soft; he was so close to her, after righting her. He was only a step away, enough to give her room to breathe, but being so close to her, his heart was going haywire, hearing those soft, sweet notes in her voice.  
  
There was that smile again, too, and Newt knew he was doomed. “I want to,” she said, and he heard the stubbornness Sophie had described. “Sophie told me the...atrocious things my mother said to you. I'm sorry,” she said, softly, and he could have happily wrapped her in his arms. He had nearly forgotten her ridiculous mother in her presence. He didn't even care that Sophie and one of the guards and even Minho were there. At that moment, all of him was focused on her, just her. “She had no right. We all do what we have to so we can get by in this life, and...well, you seem to be very good at your job,” she said, and he saw the faint blush on her cheeks. A little bit of him lit up at the praise, too. He knew he was good—the money thrown at him, the fact that he hadn't been turned in to a Crank, even, told him that—but to hear it from her lips, to hear that even she found him appealing...he was not sure he had ever heard a greater compliment.  
  
“But...” she paused, and she took a little breath. “While my mother had no right, I would like to thank you. For...many things,” she said, softly. “And I mean no insult with any offer I make, but...whatever you would like, anything, I would happily grant you that,” she said, and he heard how much she meant it. “And I'm not trying to buy you out. You're a person, and you can do what you like—but I feel me standing here is not nearly enough.” She paused again, and he could see her struggling to think through the painkillers. “You saved my life, you sat and listened to me tell you things no stranger should have to listen to, and you convinced Sophie to listen...you convinced her to take another look at what I've said,” she murmured, and those words were rushed. “She's been with me the whole time. I daresay she'll fight off my betrothed at the altar if I can't convince my parents, even,” she said, and there was warmth and teasing and laughter there, but there was something more beneath it; appreciation, awe. “And you told my mother off,” she said, and this time, the laughter was definite. “It's been such a long time since someone gave her a thorough talking-to, I think that might be about the biggest thing I need to thank you for,” she teased, and for just a moment, the glassiness vanished from her eyes and she looked happy, but he knew that she was struggling against the medicine. Somehow, he doubted that she had ever been much of a drinker, and he seriously doubted she had been on any kind of heavy drugs in her life, either, by the look of her right then. “You even gave Sophie a ride to her car,” she continued, drawing him from his thoughts. “You're very sweet. A gentleman,” she said, and she was smiling at him, making his heart race again.  
  
He blurted out exactly what he'd told her mother, “I was just doing what I thought was right,” he said, but his voice was barely more than a breath. In his head, he was wrestling with his own thoughts; he had very much been offended by her mother's offer, particularly when she had mentioned (Name)'s abuser. But (Name) had made him an offer for anything he wanted, anything, and he knew what he wanted...and, equally, he knew she would never be able to give him that. He knew he could and would never ask for that, either. And the way she spoke, he was more than willing to bet that she'd spend her family fortune getting him whatever he might want.  
  
But he didn't want that.  
  
He knew what he wanted, and what he wanted was not anything money could buy.  
  
And now she was smiling at him again, “I thought you'd say that,” she murmured softly, and she shook her head. “Indeed, I think you wouldn't accept my money no matter what amount I offered you,” she said, but she was still smiling. She hesitated, and he saw her hand shake, but she was reaching for him, something clasped in her palm. But for the first time he had seen, she took his one hand in both of hers, and she put a little envelope in his hand. When he tried to give it back, she smiled and shook her head, “It's not money. I wrote you a little thank-you note,” she said, softly.  
  
Newt looked at the thing in his palm, his name in a neat scrawl on the front, and the thing felt like more than one sheet inside. “You don't need to—”  
  
He was shaking his head, but so did she, smiling, and she squeezed his hand. “I want to,” she insisted, but her voice was soft, her words gentle. “Thank you, Newt.”  
  
The words had weight; he could feel it, he could hear it in her voice, he could see it on her face. She truly meant it. Still, her smile was so warm he felt safe seeing it, and for a moment, he just watched her, but finally, he nodded at her. She didn't have to thank him.  
  
Just glimpsing her last night, just that look in her eyes...  
  
She'd turned his world upside down. Inside-out. Maybe he should resent it, that one look had completely incapacitated him. He could no longer think of anything but her. His dreams had said as much. But somehow, with her right there before him...he was _thankful,_ having this whole reality inverted. He had never let himself fall in love. The world had never encouraged it. He had never let himself slip. He had things he had to do. Responsibilities. And all the pressure he'd been under as a teen...well, he had been in her shoes. But then, he'd gotten past that and, in so many ways, he had closed himself off, to everything.  
  
He would help others. He befriended others.  
  
But only a small fraction of people knew the truth. Knew what had happened...what he'd done.  
  
Minho was one of them.  
  
But never before had he told a stranger the truth. Never before had he admitted that he'd been in the deepest pits of his own darkness, that he had found his own despair and had very nearly embraced it wholly.  
  
And yet she stood before him, smiling, and that smile was enough to make him certain that he would rip his heart from his chest and put it in her hands. He would tell her all; he would confess all that he was, all that he had been, all that he had done and all that he had endured. He would tell her his truth, the whole of it.  
  
Though he had long ago let go of those thoughts, had moved past them, fought them down every day and sometimes even wrestled with them for weeks, he didn't talk about it. It was something that only the closest people to him knew.  
  
Yet he had blurted out the truth to this young woman as though he had no control over his mouth.  
  
But she hadn't shied away from the knowledge. She squeezed his hand. She held on to him for just a moment, told him that she was sorry.  
  
He knew it wasn't pity.  
  
She knew how it felt.  
  
But all those things in his head...all those wishes, all those certainties, he was certain they would never come to be. She was here to thank him. Formally. Nothing more.  
  
He shook himself out of it, and he found her looking at him, brows furrowed, concerned. “You okay, Newt?”  
  
He took a breath. “I'm fine,” he assured her, but unlike the night before, his usual lie didn't sound certain. It didn't feel certain.  
  
He watched her hesitate again, watched her think, consider, wonder. And then, she did something he imagined was very, very difficult for her.  
  
She stepped toward him, still a little wobbly with the painkillers, but her arms circled his neck, and she pressed close to him, hugging him very tightly indeed. He felt her breath on his neck and, with her mouth just away from his ear, her soft words were for him, and him alone. “Read it when you get home.” The words were barely a breath, but the way she was holding him made him so focused on her that he couldn't miss them. He nodded, feeling her hair feather against his jaw when his head bobbed, and he didn't push too hard; he kept his arms safely around her middle, very loose, but still returning the gesture, and he breathed his thanks in her ear.  
  
She pulled away and put a step between them again, smiling at him. “Thank you again, Newt,” she said, and he still felt that weight in her words, like they were the most important thing she'd ever said. “I think I'm going to rest now. I'm probably lucky I'm walking.”  
  
Sophie scoffed, “You're not really doing that,” she muttered, but she asked permission, this time, before she grabbed her friend, and it made Newt smile. (Name) leaned her weight on Sophie, an arm over her shoulder, Sophie's around her waist, helping the impaired young woman leave the building.  
  
The guard shut the door when they were gone, and it took Newt a good few minutes to talk himself in to turning away from the space she'd left.  
  
When he did, he found Minho staring at him, arms folded over his broad chest. “You've got it bad,” he said, bluntly, but there was teasing in his tone.  
  
Newt groaned.  
  
Minho shifted his weight, looking over Newt's shoulder, toward the space (Name) and Sophie had left. “Pretty girls,” he started, flashing a smirk at his friend, “but way out of your league.”  
  
Newt rolled his eyes, pushing down the anger at the reminder. _Believe me, Minho, you have no idea._ “Yeah. Tell me something I don't bloody know,” he returned.  
  
Minho's eyebrows shot up. “Ooh. If I didn't know better, I'd think Isaac Newton was actually _in love._ ”  
  
_That_ hit the wrong button, “Speaking of, you should go ahead and tell Thomas how you feel,” Newt bit out, “before he decides Brenda's the girl for him.”  
  
The other man went pale, and then his eyebrows furrowed. “Newt, you're not...you _can't._ ”  
  
“Tell me something I don't know,” he hissed in return, lips turning down in a heavy frown as he brushed past Minho, knowing it was time to get ready for the night. “She's engaged, and damaged, and has no interest in any relationship, by the look of it.” His grip on the envelope was tight, but he didn't crush it. It was small, small enough for him to hide from anyone else. She told him to read it when he got home. There must've been something important in it.  
  
Minho watched Newt angrily punch in a code for the locker he used, his hands shaking. He spoke, keeping his voice low, “Not the only reasons,” he barely murmured.  
  
Newt was already stripping—there wasn't much of each other they hadn't seen—and he subtly slipped the precious paper in to the pocket of his jeans, folding them inward and tightly, putting them on one of the shelves in his locker. His multiple outfit changes were already laid out, and he gritted his teeth as he looked at them. _Well, Janson's pissed off,_ he realized, looking at the things he was supposed to wear.  
  
“Yeah. I know,” Newt said through his teeth, and he again made a subtle movement; he trusted Minho, but he didn't trust the guards that had seen him get the note. As he folded the shirt he'd taken off, putting it on top of the pants, his fingers slipped the note out with some skill. He'd learned to be sneaky a long time ago.  
  
When he reached for the... _costume_ they wanted him to wear, he slid the letter in to a little seam he'd found when he first got the locker. He'd been obligated to put his money in a lock box on the floor of the locker, so that WICKED could “document” his earnings, and one of the bills had slid behind the box and he'd had to fiddle with the screws holding the locker together to pull it free.  
  
He'd snatch it as he was leaving later—he'd only tightened it enough that he wouldn't have to fight with it as hard if it happened again, and he knew he could nudge the panel just loose enough to have the letter fall on his foot.  
  
And though Minho distinctly made fun of the very... _English_ outfit they'd given him, and he had to muster all his strength to step on to the stage that night, the thought of (Name)'s note kept him sane through the night.  
  
He shed the final of his ridiculous outfits—Janson had surely chosen them to punish him—and “accidentally” slammed in to his locker with his bad leg. Of course, he made sure it definitely hurt, and he hit the floor with a plethora of swearing, swiping his hand beneath the locker before he took to rubbing his shin and ankle, hissing. He _had_ hurt himself, but he was sure it would be worth it.  
  
Minho knelt and helped him up, shielding anyone from seeing the letter—he knew Newt better than anyone else. Newt hobbled with the letter in his hand, but steadied himself on his locker, and he thanked Minho, having already slid the letter in to the folds of his jeans.  
  
He was clever, and as he put the jeans back on, the letter went back in his pocket. He collected the rest of his items—his keys, wallet, and his jacket—without further incident, but his limp was worse on the way out. It had to look real.  
  
He'd still probably take shit for it, considering Janson, but...  
  
It was worth it. He was sure.  
  
He itched to open the letter the moment he was in his car, but he didn't. His fingers were dying to pull it out of his pocket on the drive home, but they didn't. Instead, he waited until he was at home, had eaten dinner, and was in his bed before he finally looked at the letter.  
  
Her handwriting was uneven. In places, it was neat, but in others, it was messy and nearly scrawled—like she'd written some in a hurry, and some at her leisure.  
  
But the message was very clear. It truly was her thanks, long-winded and detailed, repeated, enough that it was nearly too much. She apologized for her mother, for her friends, and for her own behavior. She thanked him over and over.  
  
There were multiple pages.  
  
But on the last, there was a note that caught all his attention.  
  
_No matter what time you read this tonight, please call me. I want to speak to you, if you would. Please.  
  
_ There were some scratched out beginnings of words, and then, finally, more.  
  
_I'm not sure what I'll say to you. But...it's...it's complicated. Anyway, I hope you'll see this tonight._  
  
Thank you again.  
  
Her phone number was written below it, in the neatest handwriting he had seen yet—she re-wrote it long-hand, noting that she wasn't sure how legible her writing was.  
  
Newt felt his heart skip a beat when he looked at the clock. It was almost three in the morning.  
  
What if he was too late?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny cliffhanger...except that I've already stated that this thing has several chapters already. *Cough.* Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this bit!
> 
> Remember to comment if you like it, please! It reminds me to update this here—I'm doing so much outside of the internet/computer that I tend to forget to stop by and update, so a comment helps remind me to upload the next chapter!


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _DISCLAIMER:_** I do **NOT** own _The Maze Runner_ or any of its contents or characters. This is written purely for fun; I make no profit from this.
> 
> Hi guys.
> 
> I'm sorry I haven't finished uploading what I have done of this story...but life has been busy, which is only a small fraction of the reason behind me not updating.
> 
> The biggest part of me not uploading more is that I haven't been working on this story actively for...a long while. A very long while, in fact.
> 
> And if I'm not actively working on it, it slips my mind.
> 
> With that said, I got very disheartened (am still disheartened, honestly) about the lack of response to this story on Tumblr, because I'm a very...internalized person. I tend to write for myself, and I upload things only when I feel like people _want_ to see it. This story has gotten so little response in the last couple of times of me uploading it (other than one chapter, where I _begged_ to know if people were still reading the thing) that I just felt like it was useless to work on it.
> 
> I'm trying to make myself work on the thing, though that hasn't happened, in a...very, very long time.
> 
> But I got a comment that mentioned that I published this story a year ago and I realized, _oh, shit, I haven't updated,_ so here's the next chapter. I'm going to try to motivate myself to continue to post it, and maybe that will work toward me actually _working_ on the story. Maybe.
> 
> Anyway, I also realized I haven't shared the playlist I've made for the story, and you can find it on Spotify, [here.](https://open.spotify.com/user/celestephantasms/playlist/50ymHHujhCnS169tlMEPy6?si=_7YB7P_0TmKZICMqb9Swfw)
> 
> So, off we go! I hope you guys like this, and I'll try to remember to upload the next chapter in a couple of days, when I'm not working.

Newt fumbled with his phone twice before he managed to unlock it and dial her number. He was certain something had to be wrong with him—one glimpse and he couldn't get her out of his head. His crush on her had no footing, no good root, no _logic._ But here he was, counting the rings, dialing again, and when a raspy _hello?_ came through the earpiece, he felt like someone had taken a boulder off his chest. “(Name)? It's Newt.”  
  
He had no idea what else to say, but his mouth wanted to keep moving, or he wanted her to answer him, he wanted anything but this silence. But it took her a moment. “Newt?” His name was raspy and hoarse—he'd clearly woken her up, and he wondered if she would remember telling him to call her. She coughed softly, and then she moaned. “I'm sorry, I fell asleep,” she mumbled, but her voice had never risen above more than a whisper.  
  
“It's okay,” he made himself say, wondering what she wanted to talk to him about, wondering if she was alright, wondering _why_ she was apologizing—he'd be asleep at this hour, too, if not for his job. “Are you alright?”  
  
The words came without his permission, but he had to ask them. He simply had no choice—the question would have killed him if he'd held it in. But she let out another little moan, and he heard her breathing, sure she was shifting in her bed. “I'm okay,” she murmured. “Just waking up,” she explained, but she gave a sigh a moment later. “Thank you for calling me.”  
  
She was still whispering. He was sure she had a good reason and he didn't want to press her about it, but he wondered at it. From what Sophie had said, she had her own wing. In a manor. It occurred to him, again, how silly his crush on her was—it was impossible. Ridiculous. She was rich, probably beyond reason, from the look of her and her family, from what Sophie had told him. And yet he was clinging to his phone like a lifeline. It wasn't like him. He couldn't wrap his head around the crush he had on her. He just couldn't. “What did you want to talk about?”  
  
He also, evidently, had no control over himself with her.  
  
There was another soft sigh, and then a little hum. “I...hoped we could...talk, tomorrow,” she murmured, and he had to turn the volume up on his phone. “Somewhere private. My parents have the whole house staff watching me incessantly. I can't...talk here,” she breathed, and he finally understood why she was barely audible. “It's crazy. God, I'm crazy,” she said, and for a moment, she mumbled to herself on the other side, leaving him confused. “Look...you don't have to agree, I'm going to sound batshit insane, I probably am, but...”  
  
For once, Newt's mouth didn't automatically reply to her. Instead, he sat in his bed, staring at the quilt on it, brows furrowed. “(Name)? What are you talking about?”  
  
She gave another sigh. “I can't...explain,” she breathed. Her voice was so soft. “I just need an answer. Would you meet me, tomorrow?”  
  
Newt sat there still, unable to comprehend this. She was...asking him to meet her? And she thought she was crazy? But his heart blurted out an answer before his head could decide this was irrational, “Yes.”  
  
Her sigh, this time, was relieved, and she rushed out a plan to him—she told him where to meet her and when, making sure it wouldn't interfere with his work, assuring him that she just wanted to talk to him, that whatever she said...well, he'd see, she said.  
  
And the most insane part of it was that he was ecstatic to see her tomorrow.  
  
He nearly couldn't sleep, even after she breathed her goodbye in to the phone, and it was only, once more, near dawn that he fell asleep.  
  
He didn't sleep long. He woke up and had breakfast and showered, doing as she asked—he parked at a supermarket and walked four blocks and caught a bus to go another few miles, wondering at her urgency for the secrecy, but he knew it was a good thing on his side, too. Minho would never let him live it down, and WICKED would...well, WICKED would hate it.  
  
She was waiting for him.  
  
Her hair was kept from her face with a black beanie that covered her ears, and she was dressed warmly, but she still looked rich—her coat was well-made and her gloves were nice, her scarf neatly tucked down in to her coat, and she looked the picture of rich beauty. She smiled at him, but her hands almost instantly disappeared in to her coat pockets and her posture stiffened. “Hi, Newt,” she said.  
  
He gave her plenty of room, his mind always keeping her torment of uppermost priority—he didn't want to do anything to frighten her. “Hi, (Name),” he offered, smiling at her. “You look warm,” he tried.  
  
She chuckled, “Well, I told them I was going for a walk. I've been ditching house staff and guards for years,” she admitted, a shy smile on her lips. Still, she shook her head. “Do you mind to walk and talk?  
  
He shook his head immediately. “No. Do you have somewhere in mind?”  
  
“Mm,” she said softly. “Yeah. Come with me,” she said.  
  
He followed her, and the first few blocks, they didn't speak. Instead, she was quiet, hunched inward, and he saw her instinctively duck and dodge hastily from any men in their path. It was hard for him not to give in to the urge to find out who her fiancé was and beat him black and blue.  
  
But that would get neither of them anything good.  
  
At last, he realized they were heading for the outer edges of the city, where the crowd was far thinner, and the winter wind that tore through the air kept it even milder. She led him in to a little coffee shop, buying them both coffee, against his wishes, but she insisted he'd need it.  
  
In the end, he found that they were near the beach. Well, not a _real_ beach, but the edge of a lake that, at this time of year, was home to very few patrons. The place was lined with worn-looking wooden benches and tables, a little playground at one end, with a number of beach-side merchant shacks boarded up because of the winter. When they had walked down to the edge of the beach, she stayed there, looking at the water for a long moment, but finally, she spoke. “My mother still wants me married,” she said, after a long moment. “And my noose is still more than ready for the wedding. He wanted to visit today,” she murmured. “I asked Mom to tell him I was still ill and didn't feel like visitors,” she added.  
  
“Won't they notice you're gone?”  
  
“Oh, they have, by now. Sophie is covering for me. I was a bit mean, I guess...I asked her to tell them I wanted to be alone, that I'd asked to stay with her today,” she murmured. “I told her she owed me that much.”  
  
Well, she was right. That wasn't exactly kind. “Does she know what you're doing?”  
  
“No,” she admitted. “I'm not sure I know, either,” she mumbled, but she sighed. “You're going to think I'm crazy. I think I'm crazy.”  
  
That wasn't very comforting. He hesitated, but took a little sip of the coffee she'd bought him, and he was glad he had it, he'd admit. The winter wind was cold, even with his jacket and hat, his gloves and the boots he'd put on. “Can't think you're crazy if you don't tell me what you're thinking,” he finally pressed.  
  
She hesitated, taking a deep gulp of her coffee, but she never looked at him. “The only part that isn't crazy is that you're attracted to me.”  
  
“What?”  
  
The word exited his mouth, and he was thankful, because otherwise, it would have been his next sip of coffee...out of his nose.  
  
“I've had enough men look at me to know the look,” she murmured. “Don't get me wrong. You don't look at me like a wolf,” she added. “But you're attracted to me.”  
  
“I...”  
  
“It's fine,” she said, stiffly. “Plenty of suitors, Newt. I've seen the look. The difference is, you don't look at me like you want to rip my clothes off. It's a nice change,” she admitted. He waited, knowing she must've had a point to that statement. “The crazy part is that I'm wondering how much you're attracted to me.”  
  
“...What?”  
  
Newt's head was spinning so fast he wondered how he could stand up right. The last thing he had expected was _this._ Of course, that meant he definitely wasn't prepared for what she did next—she turned to face him, fully, her face as sober as ever, and she hadn't taken anything for pain. Her eyes were clear. “You're attracted to me. How much?” She was watching him, so seriously that it was almost funny, but she was _sincere._ “Enough to date me?”  
  
“Wait. Wait,” he said grasping at straws, trying to slow himself down. “You're _engaged._ ”  
  
“Yes, I'm aware, thanks,” she spat, her eyes narrowing. “I don't hear any other protest. Are you single?”  
  
Newt's head was spinning faster than ever, and he looked at her, and this once, just this once, he ignored the instinct that shrieked at him not to do what he was going to do. He grabbed her shoulder, pushing her toward a warped-looking wooden table, and shoved her on to its bench. He sat on the opposite side. “You're _engaged._ You also almost killed yourself _because_ you're engaged, and your mother is pushing you to marry, and _you're asking if I'm single?_ ”  
  
Her pupils had dilated enormously and she was breathing hard, but instead of looking like she was going to bolt, she looked angry. “You do that again and I'll be asking if you want children, because you might not be able to have them,” she spat. Still, she sat there for a moment, leveling her breathing, her hands shaking on the coffee cup. “...Please don't do that again,” she said, after a moment.  
  
“Then tell me what you're getting at!” He paused, realizing how angry he sounded, and he took a breath. “Please,” he said, slowly, and softly. “And I'm sorry.”  
  
She looked at him, and she shivered. “...This was a mistake.” She paused, and he saw her shaking harder, and now, he saw little tears welling at the corner of her eyes. “I'm sorry. I am crazy.”  
  
Newt huffed a frustrated sigh, but he laid his hands on the table carefully. “Please explain, (Name). You just...what are you asking me?”  
  
“I'm asking...” She shivered, and she couldn't keep his gaze, looking at the table. “Just answer the question,” she said, suddenly, but her voice was nearly too quiet to hear over the winter wind. “Please. I need that answer before I can...before I can tell you.”  
  
Newt hesitated, but took a deep breath. He tapped the table gently, where she was looking at it, and her eyes darted to him. “Come on. You asked me to talk, so look at me for this.” Her eyes darted from the table, back to him, to the table, back to him, several times, and, finally, she looked at him in full. She looked scared, this time. “You asked me two questions,” he said, slowly, and then took a deep breath. “Yes. I'm attracted to you,” he said, even though that wasn't the question she'd asked. “You asked me how much,” he added, and this time, he paused. “Enough that I'd like to find the bloke who tortured you and return the favor,” he said, slowly, “and enough that I'd like to have the chance to repair the damage. To show you we're not all like him.”  
  
She looked at him, her eyes wide and wild, and he watched her thinking. “I know you're not,” she said, softly. “I know...I know it'd be normal, for me to think that. But I...yeah, it's a thought, in the back of my head, but then...but then, I think of the man who held that door open for me. I think he was gay, but he was nice. Still a man, still nice,” she murmured, trying to smile, but she didn't quite manage. “And you...well, you exceed all expectations,” she murmured, but then, she looked away from him. “Or, you did. Until you...are you...are you always like this? Do you act so fast on your anger when you feel it?”  
  
It hit him, then, that she'd taken his gesture the wrong way. It hadn't been anger, that had made him grab her. It had been confusion. He reached for her, but then, he pulled back, tapping the table again. She looked at him after a long moment. “I didn't mean to scare you,” he promised, meaning it. “I'm sorry,” he said, and he took a breath. “I needed to sit down and I didn't want you to think I wasn't going to listen,” he admitted. “I shouldn't have acted so fast.”  
  
She looked away from him again. “Do you always do that?”  
  
He paused. “I don't know. Most people don't say anything to me.” He took a breath. “Most people aren't as...delicate. I don't have to watch myself around them.”  
  
She flinched. “I'm sorry.”  
  
He sighed, flustered, but he knew not to react to that emotion. This was because of that stupid fiancé of hers. It wasn't her fault. She was reacting the way she'd learned. “It isn't your fault,” he said, softly, and her eyes darted up to him. “And I promise, I didn't mean to scare you.”  
  
She hesitated, and it took her a little while, again, to look at him. “...It's okay,” she finally said, but she took a breath. “But please don't do it again,” she pressed. Another breath, another pause, before she spoke. “Do you...do you get angry a lot?”  
  
“Not like this,” he admitted. “It usually takes a lot to push me.”  
  
She thought about that for a little while, but she nodded. “Have you ever...hurt someone? Because you were angry?”  
  
“Almost,” he admitted, after a moment. “But not quite. Usually, my first reaction is yelling.”  
  
Once more she thought, but she took a breath. “Okay,” she said, reluctantly. “Not that that's much better, but at least I'm not worried about my ribs,” she tried to joke. It made Newt flinch, and feel guilty. Had he really scared her that much? He knew he had to be careful, and it wasn't her fault, but she was so tough, she was so...independent, so self-assured, he hadn't thought her so delicate. Perhaps her ferocity had actually been her defense. But she spoke, after a moment. “Are you single?”  
  
They were back to what had sent him reeling before, but he was determined to hear her out, even if he was confused beyond all reason. “Yes,” he admitted, slowly. “The job kind of demands it,” he offered.  
  
She paused. “Are you not allowed relationships?”  
  
He stiffened, and reflex made him glance subtly around. He saw her face fall. “Well, they aren't... _encouraged,_ ” he said, reluctantly. “And that's a bit of a story.”  
  
This time, a faint smile found her lips. “Do I need to get you drunk to hear it?”  
  
He shook his head immediately, his face souring, “You don't want to,” he said, and his words were firm. “It's...you just don't,” he said.  
  
She paused, and for a long time, the silence stretched between them. “And how would your bosses feel if you got married?”  
  
He felt his shoulders bunch up beneath all his warm clothes, and a shiver twisted down his spine. He still couldn't follow her logic. But that mention...that mention was enough that, briefly, he forgot the world around him, and it took him several moments to come away from the memory that had assaulted him. When he spoke, his voice was sour and dark and flat, an edge in it that made her skin crawl, “I'm married to my job.”  
  
A million questions tried to leap from her lips, but they couldn't all escape at once, so she sat there with her mouth open for a long time. “...Are you in danger?”  
  
“No,” he said, but it was too quickly, and this young woman was too sharp not to see it.  
  
She surprised him again; her hands reached forward and wrapped around his, gripping him in a surprisingly tight hold. “I'm a bad drunk, but you're a worse liar,” she said, but her voice was soft.  
  
His eyes darted away again, and he felt cold embrace his spine. “It's not important,” he said again.  
  
“Tell me.”  
  
Her eyes were so imploring, so worried, the words spilled out before he could keep them in, but at least they were quiet. “I'm in a contract. WICKED owns me. They'll keep me until I'm not a good sell, or I fuck up,” he blurted out. “They 'saved' me, a long time ago, and I 'owe' them,” he said, almost too fast. “But if I'm a bloody fuck-up, the Grievers—the guards WICKED employs—will come for me,” he said, and he visibly shivered this time.  
  
Her eyes were wide again, and she held on to him, “Let me buy you out. Let me. Please?” Her words were so fast and urgent, the wind nearly stole them from him. “I can pay them enough to let you go.”  
  
“No!” He gasped the word, and this time, his hands twisted in hers, holding on to her, “No. Don't you even try,” he insisted. “If they...if they find out I told anyone, they'll make me a Crank.”  
  
Her wide eyes watched him, wild and worried. “A...Crank?”  
  
“It's...” he paused, and he swallowed an enormous knot in his throat. “It's what happens to the strippers that fuck up,” he said, barely breathing. “I watched them do it, as a threat,” he said, suddenly. “Ben got married. His wife talked to them. Wanted him to quit, wanted him to work for her father,” he barely whispered. “They gave him the Flare,” he said, shaking. “It's a drug. So addictive a drop is enough to get you hooked,” he mumbled. “WICKED made it. A dose or two turns you to a bloody beast. Ben murdered his wife after three doses. Started eating her by the time the police found them,” he explained, shaking, hard. “They turn strippers when we fuck up. Keep us, use us to cover up their murders. Cranks aren't comprehensive. The Flare messes with the brain. It's so new, only WICKED has it. Nobody can trace it.”  
  
(Name) went pale, looking ready to faint. She didn't even flinch away from his too-tight grip—if anything, she was holding on to him with as much ferocity. “Newt...”  
  
“Don't say anything. Don't tell anyone,” he hissed. “Don't. Not Sophie, not anyone.”  
  
Her eyes wet with tears, she nodded, urgently, “I promise,” she gasped, and when she blinked, the tears started coming. “I won't tell anyone.”  
  
He gripped on to her, looking at her pleadingly, searching her eyes, but she did mean it, and finally, his grip softened. “Thank you,” he barely breathed.  
  
She nodded, and then took a deep breath. “I was going to...but I can't.” She shook her head, and she squeezed his hands, but she didn't let go of him. “I can't ask you to do this, now.”  
  
His face went puzzled, and he clasped her hands in his, keeping her gently from letting go of him, from pulling away. “What do you mean?” She shook her head, already trying to stand, but once more he tightened his grip. “I told you the truth. Tell me what you brought me here for,” he pressed.  
  
She didn't find terror in his grip, though she thought she probably should have. Instead, though she wanted to pull away, she felt she had to do this. She had to finish what she started, the way he was insisting, so she took a deep breath. “Look, you and I both know that the last thing I want to do is marry that...that...asshole,” she said, reluctantly, and she took a deep breath. “But the truth is...my parents—mostly my mother, actually—have made...multiple threats. If I'm not married soon, I'm disowned.” She paused, and she shivered. “I don't mean typical disowned, like rich-kid disowned, like, doting parents give it up after I live on a friend's couch for a week and say I'm sorry, I mean...disowned like paperwork-official, never-going-back disowned, because...” She shook her head. “Dad married in. Mom's dying, and she won't just _give_ him the money since he's not 'one of us,'” she said in a rush, mimicking the quotation marks in the air, rolling her eyes. “So all the fortune goes to me the minute I marry. But if I don't, I'm out the door, on the street until I can get a job after my reputation is dead and buried—and I do have one, because I wasn't about to just rely on family money—and Dad's on the street, too. Fortune goes to a snotty cousin that will, without doubt, ruin any and all reputation either of us have, and I'll be banned from my own mother's funeral,” she said, the words getting faster. “And I can get my feet under me—Sophie would take me until I could get a job and get out of her hair—but I don't know what happens to my dad,” she admitted, frowning. “He's getting older, and he was married off to my mother young. Nothing to fall on.” She paused, and he saw her shoulders sag with the sigh she gave, this time. “I wouldn't care, if not for him.”  
  
He paused, taking that all in. And it was a lot to take in. Almost too much, in fact. So she felt obligated to marry...because of her family? He paused, his face scrunching up. Surely she wasn't asking him what he thought she was asking. “You don't have a...male friend, one you could...?”  
  
She scoffed, “Oh, Mom ruined that years ago. Had male friends in middle school. By my high school years, she'd forcibly send me on a date with any male whose parents she could pay enough to get them to send their sons to me, or ones that just thought they could get in to my pants, anyway,” she said, viciously. “I've made certain I don't ever see any of them again. The only friends I have are my bridesmaids, and among them, Sophie's the only real friend I have—the others are in it for the freebies that come with rich friends,” she continued, her voice sour. “I've always been a bit too career-minded to give men the time of day.” She paused, and her face fell. “I suppose that might be part of why they never believed me. They thought it was just me trying to brush off the next male,” she mumbled.  
  
He watched her, and he took a breath, trying to wrap his brain around all of this. “So you...haven't been in love?” He paused, and he watched her flinch, looking at the weather-warped table again. “Not even another woman...?”  
  
She smiled, “While I would never deny that women are beautiful...Mom has made me hate them a bit. I'm not sure I want to spend my life with another woman,” she admitted, and while there was a little teasing in her voice, he could see why she'd actually say that. “The truth is, I'm not attracted to women...that way. To find them beautiful, yes, but I've yet to meet one that made me think, 'Y'know, I'd date her.'”  
  
He watched her again, thinking, and he took a deep breath. “I hope I'm wrong about what you're...implying that you're going to ask me,” he said, slowly, carefully, “because it seems that both our circumstances would not look on the arrangement favorably.”  
  
Her chuckle was wry, and she sighed, rubbing her face—he'd let her go long ago, when she began to explain. “You're a smart guy, Newt,” she said, slowly, but she sounded tired. “I think you're intelligent enough to know that I know nearly nothing about you, nor do you know much about me,” she said, slowly, measuring her words. “Equally, I think you already know that I find you attractive. You're very handsome,” she said, and though there was a blush on her face, she said the words in sincerity—not simply to flatter him. “But the truth is, I don't know you. I know you're a gentleman, even if you scared me earlier,” she murmured. “People don't just leave their job to take drunks to the ER,” she added, some laughter in the words. “They also don't go out of their way to drop off a stranger at their car.” She paused, and heaved a heavy sigh. “You're attracted to me. I know these things...I know that, though you frightened me, I believe you're a good person,” she said, slowly, “And right now, I know I'm desperate.”  
  
She paused, and her eyes met his. “The truth is, Newt, I need a husband. I might need one for two months, or ten years, but I need one,” she said slowly. “I need one who isn't going to torture me because I like to smile when I'm out, because I'm polite enough to thank people when they do something for me. I need one who doesn't make me watch him cheat on me—like I would actually care if he cheats, if not for the fact that I'm afraid for other women—because he thinks it'll teach me a lesson,” she said, her words coming slower, and he saw her lip tremble. “I need a husband I can trust, if only in the sense that I can believe he won't try to hurt me, even if there's never any love in the relationship and we divorce the instant my mother's in the grave.” She paused, “I'm more than aware that this is a lot to ask of anyone, but you're the option I have, because you know the whole truth. You saw my mother, and my father, you heard what...what...” She shivered, and shook her head. “I've told you everything. I saw your eyes, on the stage,” she said, suddenly. “You're not just...you're not just a stripper, and you've done so much...I don't think you'll hurt me. I hope you won't,” she said, quickly. “The truth is, I can't just walk up to a stranger. I don't care if they want my money. I've got the intelligence and the lawyers to keep them from it. But what I can't do is look at one of them and know if they're going to hurt me, and I can't convince the public I've had a secret lover for long enough to marry him if I can't trust him,” she blurted out. “But I can come up with a hell of a story to explain you. I know how to do it and I know how to convince my mother and my father and...Sophie, Sophie can know the truth, but my mother can't. I have to convince her that this is just...a relationship I've kept secret, that I've cheated on that bastard for a long time and...” She trailed off, rubbing her face again, and Newt thought she looked a thousand years old, suddenly. “And it won't be easy for either of us. But the bottom line is, you believe me about him. A secret lover, who's heard all about the things Stephen has done to me...there's a far better chance that I can get him arrested, or at least ruin his reputation.”  
  
She stopped suddenly, and her eyes dropped again. “And maybe I can protect the people I love, too. He's threatened them, if I don't marry him,” she admitted. “I haven't told Sophie yet. I haven't told anyone. As much as I resent what my mother has done all these years...I love her. She's my mother. And my dad...my dad, I love him. He's a bit of an overprotective oaf, but he's nicer than my mother,” she said suddenly. “And Sophie. He threatened her, too.” She already had tears running down her face. “The police won't listen to me. My own family wouldn't. If I have to be his punching bag for a few years, to keep them safe, I would, but...but...Newt, I don't think I can do it. I think I'd kill him if he hurt me again,” she whispered, hiccupping. “But what would my dad do? Can't get my inheritance if I'm facing life in prison, can't keep him safe.”  
  
She cried for a moment, and Newt didn't know what to do, didn't know what to say to her. But she spoke again, “And I can't ask you to do this, because of your job,” she gasped. “I can't risk you because you're a sweet stranger,” she hiccupped.  
  
Newt couldn't take it anymore. He circled the table, and though he knew it might scare her, he sat at her side, drawing her in to his arms, and though she stiffened, at first, she leaned in to him a moment later, and the crying broke loose in full, and she sobbed in to his neck. Newt did the only thing he could—he held her tighter, rubbing her back, his head spinning.  
  
What was he supposed to do? In truth, he could accept the offer. Only Minho really knew what he did outside WICKED. Thomas knew a little, but he was so new, he was of little risk. Minho could keep the lie for him. And as long as (Name) didn't demand that he leave WICKED, they would both be safe from him being a Crank. Safe from the Grievers.  
  
But it was risky. Her fiancé sounded unstable, at best. The man sounded crazy, and sadistic, and Newt could, in fact, be risking his own neck if he agreed to this. He'd be going to the police with (Name), which would be made public.  
  
And he'd be lying.  
  
Lying to the public, the police, a courtroom...that was a huge risk.  
  
They were complete strangers. But she wanted to say they were secret lovers—lovers long enough for him to propose to her. That had to have history. A minimum of two months, even to rush it, with the excuse of her “other” engagement pushing him forward.  
  
And he'd have to get to know her, very quickly. She'd have to know him.  
  
She'd have to _trust_ him. Have to be comfortable with him in the eye of the public—as rich as she was, the kind of publicity this stunt would draw would throw them in front of every camera that could get to them. She'd have to be comfortable with him holding her hand, having his arm around her, even kissing him. It would have to be convincing enough to the public and the police that it wouldn't damage the evidence against Stephen. It would have to be true enough that no one would wonder if they were really a couple, because that would throw everything else under scrutiny.  
  
When she calmed down a little, feeling weak against his chest, he pulled her away from him gently, bending his head, meeting her eyes. “Let's...allow me to...just, listen, please?”  
  
She rubbed her bloodshot eyes, nodding, sniffling. “Mm-hmm.”  
  
“In the scenario that I agree to this, you realize that you're lying. A lot. Right?” When she nodded to that, seeming not to want to speak yet, he continued. “You also realize you have to be okay with being with me, all the time, right?” She paused, her eyebrows furrowing, and he purposely leaned closer to her. “You have to trust me. You'd have to be okay with being in my arms in public. Kissing, in public.”  
  
Her mouth opened, her face going paler than it already had with her crying and the cold. “What do you...?”  
  
“I mean, this goes public, your case against him?” He paused, letting her catch up. “When that hits the press, the whole bloody world will be watching. You said he's a famous actor,” he pressed. “You'll never have any privacy, and I won't, either. They'll be outside your house, outside mine, waiting for me at WICKED, taking photos when I'm on stage,” he pressed, and once more, though she'd backed away somewhat, he leaned closer, deliberately pressing in to her personal space. “You'll be as much of a bloody celebrity as he is. You'll be followed all the time, cameras everywhere, and we'll have to put on a hell of a bloody show for them. They have to believe we're actually in love enough to get engaged,” he pressed, and he moved again, closer. “And you'll have to get used to being like this with me, everywhere,” he continued.  
  
She looked wild again—scared, and cornered, and he backed away after a very long moment. “You can't be afraid of me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There! So, I hope you guys liked that!
> 
> Drop a review if you have any questions (or if you want to remind me _HEY PAY ATTENTION UPLOAD WHAT YOU'VE GOT DONE_ ), or just let me know your thoughts and what you like! It may just inspire me to work on the story more.
> 
> Thank you all for reading!


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _DISCLAIMER:_** I do **NOT** own _The Maze Runner_ or any of its contents or characters. This is written purely for fun; I make no profit from this.
> 
> Hi guys! I actually managed to remember that I need to upload the new chapter, so here we are!
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy it!

She looked at him, her heart beating out of her chest. He was right. She hadn't thought of that. She'd thought of having this elaborate plan, of having a story of how they met and why they kept it secret, of being able to finally have the chance to put Stephen away, to protect the people she loved...to protect herself. She'd thought of all of that.  
  
She hadn't thought of having to actually _be_ a couple. All that was in her head was keeping her loved ones safe. All that mattered was them. And not having to fear for her life at every turn had seemed nice.  
  
But Newt had found a fatal flaw.  
  
Him inching closer, not even close enough to kiss her, but so close that their noses were inches away...it had frightened her. It scared her. She did trust him, but in this? She had allowed him to hold her, she had hugged him, but the idea of putting on that façade, of kissing him, being in his arms, of being in that sort of relationship—and it _would_ be one, because it had to be that real—had not yet hit her. She bolstered her courage. “Then...then, I'll just...have to learn,” she said, sounding far braver than she felt.  
  
“You have to learn fast,” he pressed, looking at her. “You'll have to get to know me, fast, and learn to trust me, in a very short period.”  
  
She felt almost queasy now, and she trembled in his arms. He sighed, and he pulled away from her, but she threw her arms around his neck. “Wait.”  
  
Caught by her grip, he lifted his eyebrows as his question. She looked scared, yet she was holding on to him. “What?”  
  
“...Kiss me.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Kiss me,” she said again, sounding braver.  
  
He stared at her, wary, confused. “You're not going to...I mean, you're just going to sit there and let me kiss you?”  
  
“I hope so,” she mumbled, and that was not the least bit encouraging to the fluffy-haired stripper.  
  
But he did it.  
  
He leaned in to her, slowly, tilting his head slightly as he dipped to meet her. He hadn't wrapped his arms back around her, too worried that she'd feel trapped as it was, but he figured she was testing her limits. His nose brushed hers, first, and then, his lips met hers, and she shuddered away from him.  
  
He pulled away, immediately, but she chased after him, “Again.”  
  
“(Name), you're torturing yourself.”  
  
“Again,” she said, and he heard the tremor in her voice.  
  
“I'm not going to torture yo—”  
  
This time, she was the one who kissed him, holding his neck a little too tightly, but she didn't pull away the moment their lips met. Instead, though he felt her trying not to tremble against him, she leaned in to him, and he gave in.  
  
He'd wanted to kiss her the moment she'd asked for him in the hospital.  
  
He kissed her back, leaning in to her, and one hand couldn't be kept still—the tips of his fingers kissed her neck, then slid back, cupping the column beneath the scarf she wore, and his thumb slid to her chin, softly tilting her head.  
  
She didn't pull away from him.  
  
He felt her lips on his, felt her kissing him back, felt her fingers creep in to the fraction of hair beneath the beanie he wore. Her nose was cold.  
  
His other hand had shifted to her hip, pulling her just a little closer, slipping up her side, but a second later, she was two feet away from him, on her feet, eyes wild and wide, both her arms curled around her side, and she looked scared.  
  
He was panting quietly, but he didn't move. He was afraid he'd scare her further. “(Name)?” The word was a soft breath. “What did I do? Did I hurt you?”  
  
She stood away from him for a long time, shaking, before the tears came. “N-no. Just...just, don't touch my side,” she gasped through the tears, and he saw her beginning to panic.  
  
She was on her knees before he could climb over the bench, and he reached for her, “(Name), come on, love, come on, look at me.”  
  
She was trying so, so hard to keep herself together, he could see it, and he gritted his teeth. He made up his mind in just a moment. “I have one of those too, love,” he pressed, not grabbing her, but kneeling before her. “I won't let anyone touch my right ankle.”  
  
She sniffled, her nose tinted from the cold, her face blotchy from crying. “W-why?”  
  
He reached for her, now, “Can I see your hand?” She gave it to him, reluctantly, and he carefully sat on the ground, and he peeled off his boot, and then slid both his jeans and his sock out of the way. He pulled her hand to his ankle, gritting his teeth, knowing that she needed something to focus on. “I broke it, a long time ago,” he started, softly, when she barely ghosted her fingers over his skin. “It's healed...but it still hurts, sometimes.”  
  
Her red-rimmed eyes looked up at him, and she sniffled again, looking scared, “Your limp?”  
  
He smiled at her, but it was broken. “Yes.” He paused, and then he tightened his hand on hers. “I'm sorry,” he murmured, gesturing with his free hand to her side.  
  
She looked at him, but her eyes went to his ankle. She wasn't touching it much—her gloves had barely brushed his flesh—but he was giving her full access to something he protected from someone else. It took her a moment, as she focused on that thought, talking herself down. Her rib hadn't broken—it was just a fracture—but she still felt it. The cold weather seemed to make it worse. Feeling him there...it had ripped her from her focus. And she had been focusing on him, had been pouring all her mind to keeping calm, when he was kissing her.  
  
She considered herself lucky that her fiancé had not raped her, but part of her drinking had been dread for the wedding night—he'd already made his promises about that. She had never been very physical. She hadn't had a lot of chance to find romance, but the truth was, the few men she'd given a chance...it didn't feel right. Kisses were messy or too hard or too rough, and she hadn't liked the way they grabbed her, like a possession.  
  
But Newt hadn't.  
  
Newt had only given in once she pushed in to the kiss, and his kiss wasn't messy. He hadn't tried to pry her mouth open—his lips had melded to hers, had fitted against hers neatly, and he'd been gentle when he tilted her head. His lips had slid from one corner to the other, his nose had brushed hers, the tip cold on her skin, but he had been gentle. Smooth.  
  
And for a moment, a second, maybe two, it had felt _good._ Like his lips fit hers. Like he wasn't forcing her, but coaxing, kissing her in a way that told her he wanted—but wouldn't force—her to kiss him back, wanted her to _want_ him, too.  
  
For a moment, she believed she could let herself get used to him, get used to his lips on hers, that she could kiss him in public, if he was always so gentle.  
  
And then, he'd touched her side.  
  
She knew it wasn't his fault—she hadn't told him how sensitive she was, hadn't told him that the pain lingered, that, even through her thick coat, her ribs were trigger-sensitive.  
  
The hand on her neck had been gentle. The gloves didn't feel right—a whisper somewhere she didn't recognize suggested that his fingertips would have felt better on her flesh—and his thumb had only barely nudged her chin, and she had been so willing to obey, leaned in to him, focused on him.  
  
She pulled her hand away from him, slowly, her eyes glancing around them. “...I'm sorry,” she said, softly. “I should have...warned you,” she murmured.  
  
He let out a little sigh, but he reminded himself that this wasn't her fault. Her apologies were conditioned in to her, probably every other thing she said with that wicked man. Maybe even more than that. “It's not your fault,” he said, keeping his voice gentle, but he readjusted his sock, pulling the boot back on to his foot, lacing it up and pulling his jeans down over it once more. Still, once that was done, he stood, and he offered her his hands.  
  
She stared at his hands for a long moment, but finally, she took them in hers. He pulled her to her feet, and she realized how strong he was, and her eyebrows furrowed, and she looked at him for a very long time. “Newt...did you...you carried me, didn't you? I thought...Sophie was kidding. But you took me to your car, and in to the hospital, didn't you?”  
  
A surprising grin found his lips, “What, you think Sophie could've stumbled you out the door without cracking your head on every bloody object in her path?” The words were teasing, but not meant to be mean. After all, Sophie had been sober enough to give the nurses her information, to get her friends to pay attention, to get her friends to call her parents. Still, he nodded, “Bit stronger than I look, love.”  
  
Her face flushed with color, richer than the cold had turned it, and he'd bet that her ears had tinted, too. “Why did you do that? You could've called an ambulance.”  
  
He paused, and then took a breath. “Publicity, for one,” he admitted, after a thought. “Second, would take longer for them to get to us, then get you to a hospital, than if I just took you in. I've seen a few mates pass out and it's dangerous,” he murmured.  
  
She hesitated, and then looked at him, “You really are a gentleman,” she mumbled, but then, she looked at him, and she took the biggest breath he'd ever seen anyone take. She let it out through her mouth, and her breath frosted on the air for the first second or two, but she was watching him a moment later. She seemed to be thinking very, very hard, and she bit her lip, hard, for a moment. “I've done a hell of a lot of things no stranger should do to someone in the span of a couple days,” she murmured, looking at him, her face sullen and almost...disappointed. “But you're trying to _help_ me, and...and I don't get it, Newt. How is anyone as nice as you?”  
  
He looked surprised, and almost felt offended by that idea, but he could see that she had never quite been treated the way he was treating her. “I'm not an angel,” he said, slowly, deliberately. “By any stretch of the word.”  
  
She paused, and she chuckled. “Lucifer, by definition, is an angel,” she said, slowly.  
  
His lips twitched. “Okay, if we're going to be technical...”  
  
She laughed, and the sound was so amazing, he had to tell himself that it wasn't a sound he could keep. It wasn't his. Still, she smiled at him, even after her laughter had stopped. “Thank you,” she said, suddenly, softly. But she took a breath. “I have a feeling I've taken up more of your time than I should've,” she murmured. “I hope I've not made you late for work.”  
  
His eyebrows furrowed, and reflexively, he looked at his watch. It was long before he would have to go to work—she'd more than given him time for this, and he looked at her, “(Name), I don't think we finished here.”  
  
She looked at him in surprise, shock written all over her face, “I can't ask you to do this. You're the last person who deserves to be in this mess,” she said, already shaking her head. “You don't need to get any more involved than you are. You've got your own problems,” she added, her frown deepening.  
  
It was his turn to watch her for a long time, and he thought, for a very, very long moment. “What if I agreed to do it?”  
  
This time, her skin lost color—she looked pale and bewildered. “And you think I'd agree? I mean, you did point out a very big flaw in my plan,” she said, trying to sound more steady than she felt. “You think I can fake romance for the public?”  
  
It was his turn to smile a bit too confidently, “I think you had me convinced you wanted to kiss me until you teleported on me,” he teased, but he gave a sigh. “I think you're desperate, like you said. I think you'll do what you have to...and I think I'm a bloody love-sick puppy who'll let you tug his leash as much as you want.” He raised his hand when she opened her mouth to protest, “I don't fall over myself for women. I've been a stripper a bit too bloody long for that, love,” he began, taking a deep breath. “But you walked in yesterday and I swear you're using my heart as a joystick.”  
  
She looked at him, somewhere between surprise and wariness, but it wasn't entirely a bad thing. Even she had to admit that—it'd work for her. “You know it won't be easy, right? You know there's no promises and this would be dangerous, don't you?” She paused, and she shook her head. “I can't...I can't ask you to do this. I mean, not just...I mean, your job,” she said, vaguely, and then she reached for her ribs, looking a million miles away for a moment. “And...and Stephen,” she mumbled. “What if he went after you?” Her eyes finally met his, and she looked scared again. “I can't put you in the line of fire. You might be the nicest person I've ever met,” she said, and there was a quiet urgency in the tone. “I can't do this to you,” she said, firmly, and shook her head. “This was a mistake. I'm sorry,” she said, and she bit her lip. “I'm sorry.”  
  
He waited for a long moment, but she didn't leave him, like he expected. She stayed there, looking lost, still desperate and thinking, and despite her words, he knew, if he pressed, she'd take him up on the offer. He took a deep breath, “I can take care of myself,” he said, slowly, “and I can act like this isn't new. I can do this. And I will, if you ask me,” he added, taking care with his words, and there was a long pause after. “But I'm not the question. The question is, how quickly do you think you can adapt to me? How quickly are you okay with getting to know me, with being physical with me?” He looked at her. “And how well is your mother going to take you marrying me, a stripper, when I sassed her about how she treated you?”  
  
She was watching him again, seeming to think, and she stepped closer to him. “My mother won't be happy...I can say that much,” she murmured. “Actually, I think the only happy one might be Sophie,” she admitted, avoiding the earlier question.  
  
He looked at her, taking note of her skipping the better part of his question, but he'd come back to it. “And what about you? Would you be happy with this?”  
  
She looked startled again, and then bit her lip, looking away. “I'd be happy if my mother wasn't such a bitch about this,” she mumbled.  
  
He sighed, “Not what I mean,” he said, slowly and distinctly. “You don't want to get married. But is this the best circumstance? Is this the best of what you can get? Is this your happiest chance?”  
  
(Name) seemed more startled by this barrage of questions, the _suggestions_ in them. He was asking her if this was her only out, or if she had better. He was asking her if she was happy if this was her solution—if, indeed, this was her last option, if she would be happy with it. “...It's better than Stephen, or a stranger,” she said, slowly, reluctantly. “Better than worrying about my father, or me, or...” She paused, taking a breath. “Yes. I'd be... _happiest_ in this option,” she finally said.  
  
He waited, letting her think over that for a bit longer, and then he asked again. “Okay, in your happiest option...can you fake it fast?” He paused, not meaning to sound mean, but he knew he did. “You have to know me. I have to know you. You have to learn to be comfortable with me, physically,” he said, slowly. “You have to trust me, fully. So, I'm saying yes. Are you?”  
  
She thought about that for a long time, and then took a deep breath. “You're totally okay with this?”  
  
He paused, “I'm questioning my sanity a bit, but yeah.”  
  
She reached in to her coat pocket, exhaling slowly. “Buy a ring on your way to work. There's five-thousand. You can keep the rest,” she said, slowly, a wry smile on her face. “Practically yours, hubby.”  
  
Newt, shocked, nearly dropped the envelope she'd put in his hand. “ _Five-thousand?_ ” The word was nearly too quiet to hear over the wind sweeping in over the lake. “You're just handing me this?” When she didn't flinch, didn't reach to take it back, his mouth opened wider, but he composed himself a moment later, taking a few breaths. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, rubbing his face. “Okay. What kind of ring?”  
  
She shrugged idly, rubbing her left hand. “Doesn't really matter.”  
  
... _Shit._ Newt had to take another deep breath. “It does,” he said, slowly, carefully. “I'm supposed to know you, to be familiar enough with you to pick out a ring for you,” he said. “What metal? How many gems? I need your size. What gems do you want?” He paused, watching her look confused. “...You've never thought about what kind of engagement ring you want?”  
  
She paused, using the answer of her ring size to delay her response, but she was staring at the ground, now. “I knew Mom would throw me in to an engagement. Why should I care what my ring looks like?”  
  
He hesitated, and then took another breath, rubbing his face. Then, he stepped toward her, and he barely touched the backs of her hands, and she only paused for a moment before she allowed him to take them. He tugged them, gently, hoping she would start taking steps toward trusting him now, and she did. She stepped closer to him, and he met her, close enough that she was staring at his chest, now. “(Name),” he murmured, gently, and it took her a little while, again, but she met his eyes a little easier than she had before. “I'm not going to buy the ring today.” When she began to protest, he squeezed her hands gently, shaking his head. “I need to get to know you. You need to get to know me,” he pressed, and he took a breath. “Can you trust Sophie about this?”  
  
She paused to think about it, and then nodded. “Yes. I'll...tell her, I'll tell her she can't tell anybody. No matter what.” She took a breath. “Why?”  
  
He paused again, and he carefully gripped her just a little tighter. “I work tonight and tomorrow night. After I work tomorrow night, I want you to stay with me,” he said, slowly. “Spend the night with me, the next day, and maybe the next night,” he said, carefully. “We need a lot of time to get the basics we should know about each other done,” he said, carefully. “And I'll get you the ring at the end of the day, when I can decide what you like.” When he saw the worry on her face, he squeezed her hands gently. “I will never force you to do anything you don't want, but you want this to be believable. You can take my bed and I'll have a kip on the couch,” he said, softly. “But we need time together, sooner than later.” He paused again, and he squeezed her hands again, very softly. “Ask Sophie to lie for you—to say you're staying with her. You can inform everyone else when you go home that you're engaged.” Another pause, and a wry smile. “If you're still okay with this, by that time,” he corrected.  
  
He watched her think it over, for a very long time, and then, giving him immense relief, she nodded. “...Okay.” She took a deep, shaking breath. “Okay. I'll...talk to Sophie,” she said, reluctantly, and he saw her shaking.  
  
He paused, and then he nodded. “Thank you,” he said, keeping his voice soft, and then he looked at her. “You hugged me yesterday. May I return the favor, properly, now?”  
  
She hesitated, but he watched her trying very, very hard to talk herself in to trusting him. To knowing him, to finding comfort with him. She was already working at it, and he knew she would manage—Sophie had talked about her, had said she was a focused and driven woman, after all. The pause wasn't too long, but it was enough to make him wonder how quickly this would work.  
  
How quickly she could trust him.  
  
But then, she was coming closer, wrapping her arms up around his neck carefully, and he noted, with some surprise, that she didn't leave room for him to avoid her sides. Surprising him further, she pressed herself to him gently, and he felt her take a very deep breath.  
  
She was afraid.  
  
So, with great care, he slid his arms around her waist, and though she flinched when the edge of his arm brushed at her ribs, she didn't run from him. He tightened his arms around her, careful to observe her, feel for her reaction, but even when his arms had pulled her slender form against his, she didn't pull away. He did, however, feel her shaking, and he tilted his head in to hers. “Am I hurting you?”  
  
He heard her breathing just a little too hard, but she wasn't running. She wasn't struggling in his grip, but that might have been a conditioned response. “N-No,” she stuttered, after a long moment.  
  
“You need to tell me if I am. At any time,” he said, and he barely flexed the arm that had caused her to flinch.  
  
She didn't budge.  
  
“I'm not him,” he said, softly. “And I don't want to hurt you, intentionally or accidentally.” He paused, allowing her to think about that. “Does this hurt you?”  
  
For the first time, he felt her smaller body relax, just a little, in his grip, and he felt her naturally press closer to him, her softer form molding gently against his. He heard her let out an eternity-long breath, slowly. “...My rib hurts...but _you_ aren't the one doing it,” she said, after a long moment. She took another breath. “I'm going to have to learn the difference.”  
  
He nodded, and she felt his head bob against her. It was a strange thing, to her, to be so close to someone, of her own volition. To even almost feel comfortable this way...it was scary in its own right. But there was something about Newt, something that talked her down. Something that she had trusted, even when she had been drunk. She had told him her story, hadn't she? She had dumped her own torment on him. And she had come to him with this.  
  
Perhaps...this wouldn't be so difficult. Perhaps she could learn, fast, how to trust him. She hesitated, and then pulled back, and he set her free almost instantly, though his hands stayed on her hips when she didn't pull too far. She paused, and then stood on her toes, and she softly pecked him on the lips in a brave moment. “Thank you,” she said.  
  
A surprisingly bright, yet gentle smile found his lips. “Mm,” he hummed, and he bent his head, pausing, meeting her eyes.  
  
She gave him permission.  
  
The kiss wasn't the same as before—she poured her focus in it, but she focused on trying to relax in to his grip, his touch, his kiss. Her hands crept to his shoulders, and his gently pulled at her hips, bringing her closer, his head dipping in to the kiss smoothly.  
  
This time, she tilted up to meet him, and this time, she agreed with the whispered thought that his hands would feel better than the gloves cupping her neck so carefully.  
  
But just when she thought he would try to deepen it, and she would have to force herself to relax, he gently pulled from her. He was smiling. “Thank you,” he said, and his voice was soft, his thumb gently feathering on her pulse. “Shall I walk you back, love?”  
  
She took another breath, surprised by him. He had certainly scared her today—truly, she had feared he had as much wickedness hidden as Stephen—but he had proven her wrong, by far. Though the physical contact was rushed, particularly to her, she knew he was doing it because of her request. Because of _her._ Perhaps he was angry, and perhaps they would have to learn each other well enough to know limits, but he hadn't truly hurt her. He had been confused, and while she didn't like how he'd grabbed her, he had not been so rough that she still felt it. In fact, his action had been to try to sort his own thoughts, to force her to sit.  
  
That didn't excuse his anger or the force he'd used, but they had talked about it.  
  
She finally nodded, and she reached for their half-finished, now-cold coffees, and she dropped them in the nearest bin. When she returned to him, she hesitated, but she pressed herself in to his side gently, and he obeyed her suggestion—he wrapped her in his arm, and together, they walked back to where they started.  
  
He made sure she was safely on the bus, before he took his.  
  
He didn't have much time left, but he prepared for work, and he knew he would have to tell Minho at some point what he was about to do.  
  
The night was a blur, and even the terrible costumes Janson chose for him didn't quite shake him out of all his heavy thoughts about what was going to happen. He had to be crazy. He knew it.  
  
Minho approached him at the end of the night, as he was changing back in to his own clothing, his head spinning with thoughts. “Newt, man, are you on something? You've been out of it since you walked in,” he said, and though his usual sarcasm was there, Newt knew he was worried.  
  
He sighed as he bent, tying his boots back on, avoiding Minho's gaze. “I'm fine,” he said, slowly, carefully, aware of the guards in the room. “Just a bit tired,” he edged.  
  
Minho watched him carefully, and then he nodded. “Why don't we go for a drink? I'll buy, you tell me why you're not sleeping.”  
  
Newt caught that in a heartbeat, of course. Minho, though sometimes very rash and always very sassy, was sly and able to slip suggestions in to a single word, when he set his mind to it. And he and Newt had been taken in by WICKED nearly at the same time, so Newt knew the other man too well not to catch his hint. “You're buying?” He intentionally injected skepticism in to the words, along with teasing. Normality, for the guards watching them like hawks. “Are you sure your pockets are deep enough for that?”  
  
Minho grinned wickedly at him, pushing Newt's shoulder playfully. “Tired as you are? Two drinks and I'll be carrying you out,” he said, laughing. Newt was thankful for the other man's acting skill—he heard the barely-audible sigh of one of the guards after this exchange.  
  
Newt threw him a responding jab as he stood, gathering his hat, gloves, scarf, and jacket from the locker, sliding them on as he and Minho parried words, further supporting the innocence of Minho’s suggestion. They each took their own car, and Newt knew where they were going. It was a bar on the opposite side of the city—WICKED had a hundred divisions of businesses, it seemed, for they owned the place Newt worked, but they also had a chain of bars called “The Glade” and gyms called “The Scorch.” Newt was certain a top-dollar, private university in Colorado called “The Maze” was their doing, too—their “break room” advertised all these places and more, and while the university was advertised, they weren't advised of scholarships—but the strippers were all given discounts at the other chains owned by WICKED. Newt wasn't surprised they'd stuck that name on his place of work—after all, enough people saw his job as a sin, why not name it appropriately? He scoffed mentally.  
  
Newt arrived a little later than Minho—the other man had a lead foot—but the sight of the bar already settled some of his nerves. The place was a bit beaten-looking, but it was a treasure to Minho and Newt. They'd found it after seeing what the Flare did to Ben—Minho had been driving, had taken a car full of them away from WICKED and had stumbled on this hole-in-the-wall bar that had been perfect for them. It was practically invisible, a run-down place that looked like it had been a warehouse in another lifetime, with about a dozen motorcycles parked in front of it all the time, the sign only ever lit on one side—it said _Jorge's Canteen,_ but too often it looked, at night, like “Jo Can.”  
  
They loved it. It was a world away from what they were used to—WICKED had a bar inside, but all the drinks were served in neat glasses and the place was almost scientifically spotless. Jorge's was not. It reminded him of a saloon in a western—all the glasses were different and the TVs ranged from sports channels to politics, with one special TV reserved for a channel that played classic cartoons. The tables were nearing wobbly and the chairs were all mismatched, but Jorge swore he'd done it all on purpose—he'd gone to half a dozen thrift shops and picked out every odd table and chair he could and intentionally moved the chairs to tables they didn't match, and he'd done the same with all the kitchenware.  
  
But the place had a special charm, even if its patrons were sometimes too loud or rowdy, and Jorge was as crazy as his patrons. He was a character if there was one and he and Minho hadn't gotten along, at first, but then Thomas had broken the ice with one of his typically-blurted, stupid statements and Jorge had laughed and given them a free round.  
  
Minho had been okay with him after that.  
  
The place was perfect for tonight. No WICKED Grievers to overhear them, and enough noise to keep their conversation private, Newt was looking forward to a drink or two.  
  
Minho nodded at the door when Newt finally got out of the car. “Am I gonna carry you out?”  
  
Newt chuckled at the venom Minho threw him. As his best friend, of course, Minho never liked Newt keeping secrets...or doing stupid things, and Minho was sure to think this was the stupidest thing he'd ever agreed to do. “Might be the opposite. You're gonna want a hard drink tonight. We'll get Brenda for you.”  
  
Minho punched him in the arm, rolled his eyes, and grumbled as he headed in.  
  
Newt took a deep breath and followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there we have it!
> 
> I hope you lot enjoyed it. I have...seventeen chapters written so far, but this is a pretty slow-moving fic, so it'll take a while for it to truly get anywhere.
> 
> That said, if you have any comments/questions, feel free to leave them!
> 
> I'll do my best to upload the next chapter in a couple of days.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _DISCLAIMER:_** I do **NOT** own _The Maze Runner_ or any of its contents or characters. This is written purely for fun; I make no profit from this.
> 
> I'm so sorry, guys. Life has been a bit...chaotic of late, so I haven't been able to upload the next chapter, but I'm squeezing this in while I can.
> 
> That said, off you go! Enjoy!

Debating between waiting until Minho had already had enough to drink to muddle his thoughts, and telling him the moment they took a corner table had been brief for Newt. He knew too well that, while Minho was his best friend, Minho, equally, would have absolutely no issue hitting him as hard as he possibly could—hard enough that Newt would have to have makeup to cover the bruise. And with that thought in mind, having Minho's impulse control muted by alcohol seemed entirely too great a risk.

So, when Minho's favorite server—Brenda, a feisty little brunette that Jorge had practically adopted—had put their drinks on the table, Newt waited only until she was out of earshot. He chose his words carefully over his first sip, “I met with (Name) today.”

Of course that made Minho put his drink down, eyes narrowed. “And you did that...why?”

The acidity and sarcasm laced within Minho's words did not even begin to escape Newt's ears—if anything, the tone his friend used made him roll his eyes. “She asked.”

Minho scoffed loudly, taking a quick swig of his drink, and Newt quietly hoped he could drown some of that sarcasm in the drink. “What, are you her lap dog now? What color is your leash?”

Newt sighed, and he leveled a stare at Minho until the other man's face sobered some—until Minho looked ready to take him seriously. “I'm about to do something stupid,” he said, carefully, knowing Minho was already thinking exactly that. “And I could use your help.”

Minho's finger was already nudging his drink back and forth. He wasn't good at sitting still, particularly when he was this anxious. “I'm not in to threesomes, so you know,” he quipped quickly, “and I am definitely not in to the rich, snobby ones.”

Newt expected his jokes, of course—Minho had always been a bit of a sarcastic asshole, but they all had their defense mechanisms. Newt had learned to read the other man well—after all, they were best friends by now. “I don't think she'd accept even if you offered,” he returned, smirking, “Although Brenda would probably go for it if you brought Thomas along.” Newt could throw it back, of course—he'd been around Minho a bit too long not to have his own viciousness when Minho was being a little too much of an asshole. When Minho rolled his eyes, though, Newt sighed. “Need you to lie for me.”

This time, Minho's eyebrows shot up as his eyes widened with shock. There was a very long pause, and Newt could practically see the thought forming in the other man's eyes, see him going back and forth, deciding what to say. “Must be big,” he finally said, very carefully, most of his teasing gone. “Who am I lying to?”

Newt was relieved to see that his friend was at least taking him seriously, even if he knew that, once he revealed his reasons, Minho would still be likely to hit him. Newt know this was insane—knew that it was crazy to do this for a stranger, but he'd fallen head over heels for her the moment he saw her, had fallen in love with her, desperately, even though it was crazy. Minho was probably right—she had a leash on him, but he'd almost certainly handed it to her. He knew Minho would never understand, would never be able to wrap his brain around his thoughts, or his reasoning. Newt wasn't even sure that he was sane anymore, but he knew that he'd fallen for her, and that he'd made up his mind. And when Newt made up his mind, he stuck with it.

Well, he would if she still agreed, after staying with him.

Therefore, with all that in mind, he took a slow, deep breath. “Everyone,” he said, slowly. “Literally. Even Thomas, and Alby.” He paused, “And especially WICKED.” At that, Minho's face went sour. Neither of them were safe—they had both been plucked from danger by WICKED, but now, they were bound to the company. They were given wages, yes, but trying to quit, exposing the truth...well, that was dangerous. WICKED owned them. Though they weren't slaves in the average sense of the word, they were very much owned...or they suffered a far worse fate than stripping for a living. Newt would never be rid of the image of Ben, screaming, angry, banging on the walls until his fists were bruised, eyes bloodshot and wild. Newt would never forget the photos WICKED had laid before them, Ben wild and out of his mind, and his wife, dead, bloody, and half-eaten. WICKED owned him.

He took a deep breath, trying to shake the images from his mind to speak to Minho. “And if you don't want to know, you need to tell me. Better that you have ignorance if you want it.”

This time, when Minho took a sip of his drink, it was just that—a sip, giving himself a pause for thought. “You and I both know I'd figure it out, or you wouldn't be telling me ahead of time,” he offered, measuring the words, eyes squinting in thought. Minho was a sarcastic asshole and a joker, true enough, but the man was intelligent. He took another careful sip. “So. Put it all on the table.”

Newt took a deep breath, but he started at the beginning—what he'd already told Minho, a shorter version, and then the note she'd given him. He told his friend about the call, about her secrecy, about her insistence at taking such great care with their meeting. He told the other man what she'd said, what he'd done. He even admitted that he'd blurted out the truth about his own awful circumstances—about WICKED's hold on him, and that she had vowed she would do nothing to put him in that risk. He told Minho the array of thoughts that had gone through him, and what he could of his reasons—finding a way to describe his feelings for her was far harder than he imagined it would be. He even admitted the truth about her rib and his ankle, and with a sip of his drink finally spit out that she had kissed him—willingly.

And then he told him his plan—to spend a night and day getting to know her, to see if she still wanted to do it, and when Minho took a very, very large mouthful of his drink, he took a breath and put on the table the bottom line: “I'm engaged.”

Minho stared at him, hard, and Newt saw his hands tremble briefly on the glass. He expected, in some manner, to absolutely get hit tonight. Of course, Minho's reason would be, “You're an idiot!,” but Newt still expected the gesture to come. But Minho stayed there, seeming vaguely paralyzed, or at least, too shocked to move.

Then, finally, the other man responded. “Repeat that.”

...Shock. Right. Newt swallowed his groan and turned it to a sigh, taking a deep breath. “I'm engaged,” he repeated, carefully, slowly, “if she decides she wants to go through with her plan after staying with me for a full twenty-four hours.”

Minho's grip on the glass tightened, and Newt waited, still expecting Minho to strike him. It was Minho's turn to take an enormous breath. “You're...engaged,” the other man said, the second word sounding like venom on his lips, “to a girl you don't know...because you feel sorry for her.” Before Newt could even begin to protest this statement, Minho laughed, but it wasn't warm. It was ugly, and cold, “You know, I figured the first time one of my friends told me that, I'd be buying the bar a round,” he said, anger in his voice. “You can buy my drink tonight,” he continued, ice in his tone. “You're about to be rich, anyway.”

Newt sighed. He knew Minho would be upset. “Fine,” he said, unable to keep his own frustration out of the tone. “But why are you so angry? This won't affect you, aside from pretending I've known her long enough to marry her,” he pressed.

“Because you're being stupid!” There it was, Newt thought. “You don't even know her! All you know is you feel sorry for her. Relate to her,” he growled. “That doesn't make a relationship viable, especially when she'll flinch when you reach for her,” he spat. “How do you know this isn't some setup? WICKED's done worse,” he said, and Newt knew the familiar horror in his friend's eyes. “How do you know this isn't WICKED?”

Newt shook his head, and he took a deep breath, knowing he had to deal with this now. Minho could be paranoid. He had good reason not to trust people. But if he left this conversation here, if he let Minho leave with this anger, he knew he'd have hell trying to win his friend's trust back. “Do you remember how you suspected Thomas, when he arrived?” Minho faltered, and Newt rushed to speak with his friend's anger briefly abated, “Do you remember when Gally accused him of spying on us for WICKED?” Newt sighed, and he rubbed his face. “Look, Thomas has done a bloody good job of proving he's not one of them,” he said, slowly. “Good enough that you've got a major crush on the guy.”

When Minho paled a little bit, Newt waved his hand, as though brushing it off. “How do you feel when you look at him? You want to protect him,” he said, carefully. “I want to protect her. And as long as she doesn't take me from WICKED, it's no danger to me.”

Minho's eyes narrowed, “What, you actually think the psychopath who's abused her isn't dangerous?”

Newt paused, glad that Minho had, at least, simmered down a bit. “I'm hoping the first thing we do is go to the police,” he murmured, carefully. “And I took fencing back then. I'll fight.”

Minho looked at him warily, and this time, it was with a heavy sigh that he took another mouthful of his drink. “You're set on this, aren't you?” He paused, and this time, the laugh was a little lighter. “You're an idiot,” he said, but the tone wasn't as vicious. It was nearly amiable, compared to many things Minho had said to him before. “But I'll lie for you.”

Newt let out a heavy breath, feeling a weight roll off his shoulders. “Drinks on me, then,” he said, a crooked smirk on his lips. “I'm about to be rich,” he said, mimicking Minho's statement. He and Minho both knew he wasn't doing it for that. Newt made good enough money. If anything, this was going to put him far beyond his comfort zone.

But in the end, they each had only two drinks, and each drove home with great care, once they had chased the liquor with plenty of water and had decided they felt sober enough for the deed.

Newt's sleep was restless, and though Minho hadn't hit him, he had to use makeup for the circles growing under his eyes for that night. She'd called him already, in secret, and had told him how to get to Sophie's—he was going to pick her up after work.

True to his word, Minho had said nothing ill the next day, joking as he usually did, but Newt didn't miss the worry on his friend's face. Newt was certain he didn't need to worry so much.

Janson, too, seemed to have calmed a bit—his outfits for the night were still not great, but less...terrible than they had been, and though he could feel thoughts trying to pull him from work, he knew he was going to have to learn to balance this circumstance with his work life, so he focused on his job harder than he had in a long time.

It paid off—he had more than enough for his plans for (Name) through the next day, and once WICKED had documented the money he earned, he pocketed it and bid his friends goodbye, heading to a twenty-four hour grocery store. He'd already cleaned up his flat and had changed the sheets and left the place looking spotless, but he quickly picked up enough food for the both of them, dropped it off, and then went to pick her up.

Sophie lived in her own small home—it was nearer to the edge of the city than he expected, but the little house was charming in its own right. It was a single level and made of brick, and he was welcomed inside by a sleepy-looking Sophie, who looked, through her bleary eyes, almost happy to see him. Her furniture was a bit mismatched and the place was messier than his own, but it looked comfortable and lived-in, and Newt suspected that this charming little place had become a haven for (Name).

“She fell asleep,” Sophie was saying, quietly. “She sleeps a lot lately...I suppose it's depression,” she murmured quietly. “She bought this place for me,” she said, pulling her house coat a little tighter around her. “Said it was my graduation present, but I think she felt sorry for me. My mother died a month before my graduation,” she said, the words a bit too quick, but Newt knew that it must have been a sensitive subject. “I wouldn't let her furnish it, though she tried.”

Newt was following her down a hall now, “She sounds like she's always been generous,” he suggested.

“Oh, yes. She insists that her family has too much money.” The woman gave a giggle, “(Name) won't blow the money on just anything, but I can tell you she's got a penchant for pissing her mother off about their fortune,” she hinted, glancing over her shoulder.

“I don't doubt it,” Newt murmured, thinking of the five-thousand dollars she'd just handed him—and hadn't allowed him to return. He paused. “How has she been?”

Sophie stopped in front of a door, and she didn't reach to open it. “Worried,” she said, softly. “She told me...everything,” she admitted quietly. “About her plan, what you'd said...what you did,” she murmured. She took a deep breath. “And if you ever scare her like that again, I will personally rip your dick off and shove it down your throat.”

Surprise was brief for Newt, but she saw it on his face before the expression melted in to a soft smile. “Right. I'll keep that in mind,” he said carefully, but he took another breath. “Are you okay with this?”

“No,” she said swiftly, and this time, his surprise lingered. “I wish she didn't have to get married. I wish her mother was more reasonable. But if she has to get married...I guess you're okay,” she said, some reluctance in her tone. Still, she paused, not reaching for the door yet. “She told you it could be dangerous, right? For all of us?”

“I'm not afraid of Stephen,” he said, quietly, carefully. “I can fight. What scares me is what he might do to her for this,” he said, keeping his voice low. “She's suffered enough.”

Sophie watched him for a very long time. “You actually do care about her,” she said, after a long moment, sounding surprised. “...Right. You're gonna need to see this,” she mumbled, reaching for the door. “Have to be careful waking her. I thought...of course, I was stupid, but when she first told me...I thought she was lying.” He saw her hand tighten on the door handle, gripping it as she let out a shaking breath. “I'm never going to forgive myself for that. But you're right. I need to help her now, so...”

Newt, bewildered, could only nod, and Sophie eased the door open. The room was dark, with faint strips of light stretching around the curtains like fingers along the wall, but he could make out the bed. Sophie flipped a switch that turned on the light by the bed, and Newt's heart jumped. She was curled up on the bed, on her good side, Newt noted, but she had a pillow beneath her arm, protecting her rib.

Newt felt his chest ache.

Worse, she looked exhausted in her sleep, face creased and a frown on her lips.

Sophie gestured for him to stay in the doorway, and she approached the bed. She reached beneath the lampshade and turned the light to its highest setting, and then knelt, not touching the bed, and said her friend's name several times. When the other woman began to stir, her face crinkling in her sleep and her breathing picking up, Sophie slid the tips of her fingers under the pillow, barely tilting it, until (Name)'s face was looking toward the bright light. “Hey. (Name), Newt is here.”

The other woman moaned quietly, and the arm pinning the pillow on her ribs dropped across her belly, the other reaching beneath the pillow. She nudged at Sophie's hand, “Sophie?”

Sophie let out a loud sigh, “Yeah. You're safe,” she assured. “Newt is here for you.”

(Name) struggled for a moment, turning her head down in to the pillow, blocking out the bright light filtering through her eyelids. “Did you tell him?”

“Not yet,” Sophie said, softly. “Showed him how I wake you, but not why.”

When Sophie reached up and turned the light back down, (Name) sighed, and she shifted, at last. She pulled the pillow away from her rib, sitting up, rubbing her face. “Just don't grab me when I'm asleep,” she murmured, her voice husky and thick with sleep. “Or jostle the bed.”

Newt's shoulders knotted. “I'll let you sleep as long as you want,” he said, softly. “I didn't plan on waking you up, anyway.”

She peeked at him, bleary-eyed, blinking for a moment. “You don't want to know why?”

Newt gave her a faint, strained smile. “You give me more reasons to want to strangle him and I might act on it,” he said, slowly. “And you...you told me, he...wouldn't let you sleep,” he said, carefully, mindful that she had apparently told him far more than she had told Sophie.

She stared at the bed quietly. “When he'd beaten me and I couldn't get out of bed,” she murmured. “Yeah. Grabbed me when I was almost asleep. Kept shaking the bed.”

Newt felt the heat of rage roll through him like a tide, burning through his veins like fire. He hadn't even allowed her to rest, to heal. He had to take two deep breaths before he composed himself. “I won't ever wake you up, unless I have to,” he said, slowly and carefully. “Okay?”

She nodded, after a very long moment. “Thank you.” She took a deep breath, and she stood, circling the bed to get a little suitcase. He suspected she'd truly been staying with Sophie. He watched her hug Sophie tightly, and Sophie returned the gesture with equal fervor. “Thank you for letting me stay with you. I can't stay at home,” she murmured, sounding miserable. “And thank you for...well, for this, too,” she said, gesturing subtly toward Newt.

Sophie smiled at her, “Just so you know, I already made my threats. I think he'll take care of you.”

A surprising smile cracked on to (Name)'s face, and the woman gave a quiet laugh. “You don't know how nice he is, Sophie,” she said, softly, glancing at him, meeting his eyes. “Nicer than I dreamed anyone could be,” she said.

Sophie pulled her in for another hug, nodding. “Still. He does anything wrong, you tell me. He knows what'll happen,” she said, a little threat in her tone, but there was warmth in it, too.

(Name) chuckled and shook her head, thanking Sophie one more time. But Sophie walked them to the door, and Newt loaded the little suitcase for her carefully—he even opened the door for her and let her get in before he closed it, and Sophie waved at them as he started the car, and he waited for her to get inside before he finally backed on to the road.

The ride was quiet, and he suspected (Name) was still at the edge of sleep. But nearly halfway there, she spoke, startling him, “What did your friend say?”

He chuckled. “He called me stupid, and an idiot, and yelled at me a bit...” he paused, seeing (Name)'s surprised expression out of the corner of his eye. “He's worried. But he told me he'd keep the lie for me.”

She nodded, and let out a little sigh. “You haven't changed your mind?”

Newt subtly shook his head, “No. But we'll see how things go tomorrow,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “See if you still think it's a good idea.”

She hummed at him, and there was another brief stretch of silence, before she spoke again. “You said...you wanted me to spend two nights,” she murmured. “Why?”

He chuckled, “Well, I'm going to spend the day with you tomorrow,” he said, smiling, “and I don't want to take you home late at night and arouse further suspicion before you're ready to go through with this.”

Another little pause of quiet, the hum of the car the only noise around them, but he knew she was thinking. She seemed to do that a lot. He suspected she was quite intelligent, which he appreciated. “You said you'll sleep on the couch, didn't you?”

It was lucky they were already stopped at a light, because he turned to her in full, “I won't share a bed with you until you're ready,” he said, slowly. “If it takes such great care to wake you up, I can't imagine you would ever find sleep with me in the bed with you,” he offered.

She hesitated, and he could nearly watch the cogs turning in her head. “But that's not fair for you,” she murmured. “Sleeping on your couch.”

Newt chuckled, “It's nothing.”

She shook her head—he saw it out of the corner of his eye, having already started driving again. “I...I brought the pillow for a reason,” she said, reminding him that she'd stuffed the little thing in the suitcase before they left. “I thought...I thought you could...could share with me.”

It took all his will not to slam on the brakes at that. “What?”

“I thought about what you said,” she said, the words rushed. “About trusting you. I mean, I already do...I don't know how. I'm not sure why. But I wouldn't have spilled my life story to you if there wasn't something already there,” she murmured. “I wouldn't have asked you this if there wasn't something there,” she said, every word a little faster. “And I brought the pillow because...I used it a lot, when I first got away. But I thought it would help, just in case you're the cuddly sort.” She took a breath, and he heard it. “But you're right. If we're going to make this work, it has to be fast, so I may as well jump in with both feet.”

Newt considered it fortunate they were almost home—his head was spinning. He hadn't expected this kind of jump. He knew that she was determined, strong-willed. She showed that to him already, Sophie had talked about it, but to have it presented to him so quickly was a shock, and it took great strength for him not to actually stop and just look at her with his mouth open.

And he couldn't even begin to reply.

Thankfully, she seemed to expect it. “I'm not trying to...I mean, I just want to...get it out of the way. See if it works,” she said, her voice quiet. “Are you...do you usually wrap around people in your sleep?”

Newt hesitated. “I...don't know,” he admitted. “It depends on the person, a bit,” he edged. “With you? Probably,” he admitted, after some thought. “Because I want to protect you. I'd want you close, safe, where I can keep you with me...which would probably turn in to me cuddling you,” he finally said.

Another silence, and they were almost there. Two more turns. “Then...when we go to bed, will you...will you go ahead and...do that? To see if I can handle it?”

He hesitated, and then nodded. “Yes.”

She thanked him, and all was silent as he parked, helping get her suitcase, walking her up the stairs to his flat. He unlocked the door carefully, and he gestured her ahead of him.

She was surprised. His home was neat—almost obsessively so, even if he'd cleaned to prepare for her. The only messy things were a desk of papers and a plate in the sink—probably from the last time he'd eaten. She felt intrusive, looking around, but she was trying to tell herself that she was about to marry him. She needed to know him.

He interrupted her thoughts, “Have you eaten? Are you hungry?”

She blinked, but smiled, “I'm fine. I just woke up, remember?”

He chuckled at her, but he took her little suitcase to his room—their room. He showed her where everything was, and she was still in her regular clothes—he offered her the bathroom first, and promised he'd join her after he ate a little bit.

She'd taken a shower earlier, having decided she wanted to try to share the bed with him, so she only took the time to brush her teeth, washing her face quickly, and she changed in to her pajamas, bracing herself for a full minute before she went out. It wasn't like staying with Sophie—Sophie was practically her sister, and (Name) would change in front of the other woman without hesitation. Sharing a bed was something she didn't do, however.

But she would have to, she had to adjust to this entire circumstance in rapid order and she would have to think of this place as hers, too, very soon. After all, her mother would never allow him to move in until they were wedded...and, most certainly, he would move in with them. The manor had been in the family for generations. She would not be moving to his place.

But sharing with him, letting him in to the private things she did...that would take time. Even though she knew everyone did these things—showering, changing, attending to personal things...he was practically a stranger to her.

That was soon to be remedied, she hoped.

Still, after bracing herself, she strode from the bathroom to the kitchen, deciding that she wanted a bit of water before bed, and she found him placing his plate to dry beside his sink, drying his hands off after he'd drained the inch or two of water he'd run for his dishes. He smiled at her, looking surprised, but comfortable seeing her. “Change your mind about the food?”

She shook her head, “No. I just thought I should have a bit of water before bed, instead of waking in the middle of the night and bothering you about it,” she said, feeling strangely comfortable with him.

“Hmm,” he offered, and he opened the cabinets above his dish drainer—all his plates, cups, bowls, and mugs were there, and below it, he pulled out the drawer—his silverware. “Pretty easy to find, right, love?”

A smile found her face, surprisingly wide and delighted, “Right.” She hesitated, but he beat her to it—he pulled a glass from the cabinet and handed it to her. “Thank you,” she said, and though she paused, he answered her question—the tap was safe. With that, she drew half a cup of water and took a sip, sighing quietly.

He smiled at her, “I'll take my turn now. You can help yourself to anything, and you can take the glass in the bedroom, if you like,” he offered. “Anything else, before I take a quick shower?”

She blushed, but quickly banished the brief thought his words provoked. “No, I'm fine. Thank you,” she said.

He smiled, and disappeared in to the bathroom. She heard the water running, and used the time, once more, to calm herself. This was crazy. But there was something comforting about him, and he was kind. She decided to finish the water now, and she sipped it as she padded around the kitchen.

The messy desk drew her attention once more. She wandered to it, and nearly turned away when she saw that most of it was financial matters, bills, bank statements. But while one stack was that, there was another, smaller stack, and it drew her eye unerringly. The papers were spread apart a bit, but each held art. The top was a sketch of the Asian man her friends had adored before, the one he'd been with when she went back to thank him. It wasn't much, but even the minimal time he seemed to have put in to it showed skill—she suspected if she held the sketch up beside the real man, she'd find little difference.

The next in the stack looked like a young woman, reading a book. Another was a gentleman walking a dog.

The last made her flush red. It was her, she was sure. But it wasn't her whole body—it was her shoulders up, her expression sad and solemn. This one was more detailed than the others—he'd filled in her hair neatly, the way she had it styled the first night they met, the little crinkles at the edge of her mouth from smiling, the curve of her neck and the set of her jaw.

It was far more beautiful than she felt, and the look on her own face was so intense...she wondered if she had truly looked at him so powerfully.

“You're beautiful, you know,” he said, softly. “You could kill a man with your eyes.”

She whirled around to him, startled, so lost in trying to suss out the difference between herself and this drawing that she had utterly missed his entrance. He smiled at her. “Couldn't get you out of my head. So,” he said, gesturing to the paper.

She hesitated, “You're...incredible. This is amazing,” she said, softly, her hands skimming over the art before her. “And I didn't mean to pry, I just...”

“It's okay,” he said, idly. “I should've put it away if I didn't want it found,” he offered, but he was smiling. “It's not something I hide.”

“You could make a fortune,” she said. “This is wonderful. Even your sketch of your friend...it looks like you did it quickly, but it's so good,” she offered.

“Thank you,” He said, and smiled at her, “I've sold some, when I need the money,” he agreed, shrugging. “But I think we could both use some sleep, and you wanted to test your comfort with me, so...”

She hesitated, and he assured her that they could talk about anything she wanted tomorrow—but tonight, they should sleep. It was late. So, reluctantly, she led him to his room, and she climbed in first. He waited until she told him she was comfortable—with the pillow around her ribs—before he followed.

She stiffened the moment the bed moved, but he was careful, pulling the blankets to their waists, before he moved closer. He felt her shaking in the bed, “We don't have to do this.”

“No,” she agreed, “but I need to know. I...I trust you,” she said, quietly. “I do.” She took a breath. “Just...slow?”

“Of course, love,” he assured. Carefully, he slid himself against her, conforming his body gently to her back, not too close, but enough that he could put his arm around her. The pillow was definitely awkward—its edge pushed against his own ribs—but he would not take her protection from her. So, with great care, he lifted his arm, and though he began to put it only over her stomach, she insisted that he put it over her ribs, to see if she could handle it. If it hurt.

He hesitated, and then took a breath. “I'm going to lean in to you. You'll be able to feel my breath on your neck. Is that okay?”

She hesitated again, felt her shaking again, but she nodded. “Yes.”

Newt moved with great care, nuzzling himself in behind her a little closer, which allowed him a little more room to do what she demanded; he put his arm over her, his hand briefly skimming her skin, to warn her ahead of time, before he eased it on to the pillow.

And though she was still trembling gently, she was taking deep breaths, and at last, he allowed his arm to curl gently down against her belly, letting the tension fall from it, letting it relax around her.

Still gently shaking, her smaller body was tense, but with several slow, deep breaths, she relaxed in his grip, and as he felt her do so, he spoke, “Am I hurting you?”

She took another of those deep breaths, letting it out slowly. “No,” she said, after a moment. “Actually, you...you kind of...feel nice,” she said, quietly. “You're warm.”

He was silent for a moment, before he stirred, “I'll pull the blankets up, if you feel like you can let me move my arm again,” he offered. “I should've done first, love. I'm sorry.” But, though she took a deep breath, she let him move again; she let him set her free, pull the blankets around both of them, and then, with less care than before, he gently wrapped himself around her once more.

At the edge of sleep, Newt swore he felt one of her fingers tangle in with his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go! A little closer there, some touches of trust...slow progress, but it's to be expected.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed that!
> 
> Comments/questions/constructive criticism/etc. is/are welcome and appreciated!
> 
> Hopefully I can find the time to update this soon.


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